


A Vor's Duty

by dptullos



Series: The Prole Office [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dptullos/pseuds/dptullos
Series: The Prole Office [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974169
Comments: 74
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

The protestors were marching towards the palace, banners held high. 

Dmitri had expected them to chant “Down with the tyrant!” or something similar, but they were singing the national anthem. He sang along, having memorized all twelve stanzas as a child. Half of them were just variations on “Death to Cetagandans”, which was possibly the one thing that united everyone on Barrayar. There was nothing more patriotic than shooting Cetagandans or throwing them off a mountainside. 

Most of the people in the crowd were wearing their best clothes, and their banners were decorated with Emperor Gregor’s face. It reminded Dmitri of the parade on the Emperor’s Birthday, but these people were walking directly towards a barricade, and there was no sign that they were going to stop. The line of municipal guards wavered, then slowly began to retreat as the human column pushed forwards. 

“Did you sign the petition?” Dmitri turned his head to see a woman in a business suit. She was probably Mom’s age, with brown hair piled atop her head and a warm smile, and she was holding a clipboard. “Please write your name and your reason for supporting Csorna’s self-government.”

Dmitri took the clipboard and scribbled “Dmitri Hasapi”. After a moment, he added, “A Vor should keep his word.” It might have been Count Vorjuric’s great-grandfather who promised Csorna that they could elect their own city’s Speaker and city council, but he had given his word as Vorjuric. It was only proper that the current Count Vorjuric should respect his ancestor’s bargain.

The woman said, “Thank you. I am Eleanor Matthews, and I would like you to support me for Speaker of Free Csorna.” She shook Dmitri’s hand and moved on, giving the clipboard to an elderly man wearing a Service uniform. He was supposed to be looking for dangerous elements, but everyone here seemed like a good subject of the Emperor. Now that he thought about it, the Major was probably easing him into undercover work, giving him an easy mission so that he could gain more experience without putting himself in danger. 

The first ranks of the protestors had arrived in front of the palace, and Dmitri slowly made his way towards the front, murmuring apologies as he brushed against people. The Count’s palace loomed ahead of him, a vast stone fortress from the Time of Isolation that still bore the scars of cannonballs. If the circumstances had been different, Dmitri would have loved to take the tour. 

“DISPERSE!” Ranks of District Militia stood in front of the palace, stunners trained on the crowd. “In the name of Count Vorjuric, we command you to go home at once!” 

No one moved. Dmitri supposed that disobeying an order from your Count was a crime, but they were so polite about it. Protestors in Vorbarra Sultana threw rotten fruit and sometimes rocks at officials who offended them too badly; Csorna’s protestors weren’t even cursing the Militia. The singing died away into silence, and Dmitri waited. 

Eleanor Matthews stepped forth from the crowd, taking up a position between the protestors and the Militia. Three men followed after her, standing boldly in the open under the weapons of the militiamen. “Count Vorjuric,” Madam Matthews shouted. “Count Vorjuric, we remind you of your ancestor’s promise. Repeal your decree, accept Csorna’s right to choose our own leaders, and honor your word as Vorjuric!”

The balcony doors swung open, and Count Vorjuric emerged. He looked much as Dmitri remembered him, with a handsome, sharp-featured face and greying hair. The Count was wearing his House uniform, just as he had at the conference center, but there was a pistol holstered at his side. A squad of green-and-white armsmen with needle rifles emerged from the doors behind him, spreading out and aiming their rifles down at the crowd. 

A murmur of fear rippled through the protestors, but Madam Matthews walked forward, halting just below the balcony. “Csorna demands our traditional rights,” she said. “We will not surrender our city’s freedom, earned through the service and sacrifice of our ancestors! FREE CSORNA!”

Count Vorjuric said, “I am your ruler and liege, and I will not surrender my city to radicals and terrorists. Abandon this treason, return to your homes, and I will forgive this uprising.” He stepped up to the railing, looking down over his rebellious subjects. “This is your only chance.”

Dmitri could see the crowd waver. Some of the people around him began backing away; others pushed forward, driving the crowd towards the Militia. The militiamen held their ground, stunners trained on the protestors, and Dmitri heard the people around him start to chant. “FREE CSORNA! FREE CSORNA! FREE CSORNA!”

Madam Matthews staggered, clutching at her throat. Dmitri saw blood welling between her fingers, and then she collapsed. Her three allies dropped with her, and Dmitri looked up to see Count Vorjuric staring out over the scene with an expression of cold triumph on his face. One of the armsmen took the Count by the shoulder and pushed him towards the balcony doors, and then the crowd went mad. 

They howled in fury and charged towards the palace, screaming their rage at the militiamen. Dmitri stumbled forward with them, pushed onward by the people behind him, trying not to be trampled. A huge man carrying a banner ran past him, waving Emperor Gregor’s face, and Dmitri glimpsed a brilliant flash of light. 

The bannerman dropped, and Dmiti threw himself to the ground. People collapsed all around him, and the District Militia began to advance, firing stunners relentlessly into the crowd. Dmitri stayed low, beneath the line of fire, crawling on hands and feet.  _ God _ , he prayed.  _ Don’t let me be trampled.  _ Boots slammed down inches away from his face, but somehow he managed to force his way out of the press of bodies into the open street. 

There was no time to think. Dmitri had to run, to get back to his hotel. He couldn’t be caught out here. He rose to his feet, desperate to escape, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the old man in uniform. Blood was running down his face, and he was struggling to get to his feet.

Dmitri grabbed his arm and dragged him up, stumbling down the street with the veteran next to him. The old man staggered and almost fell, but Dmitri caught him and turned down a side street. They made their way over the stone cobblestones, half running and half walking, and Dmitri realized that the veteran was gasping out words. “Leave...leave me. I’ll slow you down.”

“No,” Dmitri said. He had no badge on him, no proof that he was ImpSec. No way to call the Militia off. A protestor in a business suit raced past them, blind with fear, and he heard footsteps around the corner, drawing closer. He tugged frantically at the old man, but he was bent over, clutching at his chest. A squad of militia came around the corner, stunners at the ready, and he threw up his hands. 

“Please,” Dmitri begged, stepping in front of the old man. “Please.” Brilliant white light flashed before his eyes, and he felt himself falling, falling…


	2. Chapter 2

“It always has to be this way.” The speaker was an older man with a broken nose and a thick backcountry accent. He spoke flatly, without any real satisfaction or anger in his voice. “The Vor break every peaceful movement for change. When their oppression grows too much to bear, the People will rally to their Defense League, and the Revolution will begin.” 

His young companion shook her head. “No,” she said, “a peaceful revolution is possible. Once we win over the elements of the proletariat that support the Vor, they will find themselves without enforcers to uphold their unjust rule. With patience and education, we can persuade the younger generation and bring about change without unnecessary bloodshed.” 

Most of the prisoners were huddled in the corners of the room, far away from the two of them. Dmitri inched closer to listen. “They always say that times are changing,” the old man said sadly. “That we can fix the system without burning it down. I hoped that Eleanor would be right, that this time would be different.” He shrugged. “The People will rise, even if I am not here to see it.”

“The People will rise,” the woman said fiercely. The old man wore tattered workingman’s clothes, but she was dressed in a formal suit, more like a lawyer or banker than an activist. She glanced at Dmitri with sharp brown eyes in a round, pleasant face. “Do you have a smoke, Comrade?” 

He passed her a cigarette, and she lit it gratefully. “Do not give up hope,” the young woman said. “We will build the future on the bodies of our martyrs. When they let you out, remember this day. Remember the heroes who laid down their lives for our freedom.” 

If the Count had wanted to take Eleanor Matthews and the other leaders alive, he could have. He could have accused them in open court, where they could speak in their own defense. Dmitri passed the young woman another cigarette and watched the others in the cell, wondering how many of them would listen to the old man instead of the young woman. If you could be shot for petitioning your Count, why not join the terrorists?

He was too exhausted to be properly angry, and his head still ached from the stunner. The Militia had locked them in a dusty storeroom rather than a proper prison cell, and he could hear the guard pacing up and down in the hallway. The Count’s men had taken his comm, so he couldn’t call Irina to get him out. He was stuck here until she found him, the Militia decided to let them go, or…

No. Dmitri shivered in the cold air. No, it wouldn’t come to that. The Militia would eventually have to release them, or at least most of them. The old man and the young woman sounded like they had been in trouble before; it was unlikely that they would go free. “Dmitri Hasapi” would walk out with a mark on his record, while they would end up in a cell. Or a grave.

The door swung open, and a half-dozen militiamen marched in, ready to use their stunners at the first sign of resistance. They looked younger than Dmitri, children in camouflage. He raised his hands in the air, careful not to do anything that might provoke them. The rest of the prisoners copied him. Several of them were crying now, and the militia sergeant glanced away, discomfited. 

Two men walked in behind the militia. They wore the undress greens of the Imperial Service, with Horus eyes on their collars. Dmitri could feel the other prisoners cringed away, but he kept his own face stiff and expressionless, just like the older man. The younger woman blew smoke in the direction of the Imperial Security agents, and Dmitri flinched, waiting for their reaction. 

They walked past her without a word, grabbed Dmitri by the arms, and cuffed him. A hood dropped over his head, and he turned from side to side, trying to hear what was going on. Someone murmured in horror, and then the agents dragged him out, ignoring his feeble attempts to break free. 

After a minute, he stopped resisting and focused on listening. There were loud, angry voices echoing all around him. An officer- they had to be an officer- was barking orders to the Militia. “I don’t want the traitors dead,” he snapped. “I don’t want them beaten or bruised. I just received a call from ImpSec Headquarters, and they want breathing sources of information, not useless corpses.” 

Dmitri felt his shoulders relax, just a little. Imperial Security Headquarters meant the Prole Office, and Major Neumann wasn’t going to execute people for peacefully petitioning their Count. The guards kept walking at a brisk pace, forcing him to stumble along with them, and he fought to stay on his feet. They handled him like a piece of luggage, never giving him a chance to pause and take his bearings. He only knew that they were outside when he heard the roar of a groundcar’s engine.

His wardens marched him up a ramp and cuffed him to a ring. As their footsteps moved away, Dmitri took a deep breath, then another. Someone was standing close to him, close enough to reach out and hit him. He’d undergone interrogation training at the Academy, and again when he accepted a posting at ImpSec, but it was nothing like the real thing. 

His hood came off, and Irina tossed it away. He was standing in the cargo bay of a shuttle, and the ramp was already closing at the shuttle’s engines hummed to life. Irina unlocked the cuffs, and Dmitri rubbed his wrists, temporarily at a loss for words. He had spent more than a week undercover, pretending to be one of the dissidents, and it felt strange to become an Imperial Security officer again.

Irina said, “Tell me what happened, Dmitri. Tell me  _ everything _ .” 

She brought him a drink when his voice began to crack, and he drank the lukewarm water while he told her about the march to the palace. It tasted sweeter than any wine, and Irina tossed him another bottle when he finished the first. He still had no idea what happened to the old veteran, but he mentioned him to Irina, hoping that she would know something. 

“There are four thousand people in detention,” Irina said flatly. “I can’t pick one out of the mess. I can tell you that he’s probably still alive, since the Major called Vorjuric and asked him not to start shooting prisoners before we could interrogate them.” 

Dmitri said, “I don’t think they were terrorists.” The People’s Defense League didn’t march through the streets carrying banners with Emperor Gregor’s face. They had to know that the protest would be full of undercover agents working for the municipal guard, the District Militia, and even Imperial Security. Everyone who attended would end up in a database for the rest of their life, marked as a possible danger.

“Maybe not yesterday,” Irina said. She scowled down at the ground. “Today, who knows? Damn Vor. They never think about how much trouble they’re going to make for us.” 

Once he would have argued with her. “How much trouble  _ will  _ Vorjuric make for us?,” Dmitri asked. He was a professional, and his feelings would wait until the job was done. “Can we do anything to discourage him from making the situation worse?” 

Irina laughed mirthlessly. “We’ll try,” she told him. “After all, we’ll be the ones who have to deal with the consequences if things go wrong.” Dmitri had hoped to visit Mom in a few weeks. Now he would have to write her and let her know that it might be months before he got a break. 

_ Dear Mom, today I saw a Count murder his subjects for demanding their feudal rights.  _ Vorjuric was the worst by far, but he wasn’t the only one. In the six months that he’d spent undercover, Dmitri had never raised a violent hand against the authorities or spoken a word of rebellion against the Emperor. In return for his restraint, the municipal guards in four separate Districts had stunned him, clubbed him, robbed him, and locked him in a dungeon full of hungry rats. Count Vortifrani was a staunch Conservative, and he preferred the old methods when it came to dealing with troublemakers.

His father had always said that Vor was about duty. From the moment of their birth, they were servants of the Emperor, the sinews that held his great Imperium together. If they failed in that duty, if they betrayed their oaths, how could they demand loyalty from those beneath them? 


	3. Chapter 3

“Treason is a weed that must be torn out by the roots.” 

Count Vorjuric seemed perfectly calm, as if he hadn’t murdered four people in cold blood. As if his Militia didn’t have four thousand under arrest, awaiting his judgement. Dmitri watched him from the gallery, searching his face for some hint of guilt or unease. He saw only perfect certainty, the absolute confidence of an innocent man. 

“My ancestor granted Csorna the rights of a free city,” Vorjuric said. “He gave only three conditions; the city would pay taxes to Count Vorjuric, it would support the Count in war, and it would not shelter traitors against the Count.” He shook his head sadly. “They have betrayed their duty, and forfeited their rights.” 

Count Vorhalas stepped out of the ranks of Conservative Counts, waiting to be recognized. Vorjuric nodded graciously to him. “The people of Csorna came to petition their lord,” Vorhalas said, cold and flat. “I do not dispute the Count’s right to deal justice, but if they were guilty of a crime, it is customary for the Count to lay charges in a court. Not to shoot his liegepeople dead in the street.” 

Vorjuric said, “I commanded them to disperse, and they refused. I gave them a chance to abandon their treason, and they continued. Csorna chose to shelter traitors, republicans and revolutionaries who deny not just my authority, but the Emperor’s rule. I am ruler and judge in Vorjuric’s District, and they defied me to my face. There is only one penalty for such rebellion.” 

Applause rose from the Conservatives, though Count Vorhalas stood stiffly, arms folded across his chest. The Council of Counts echoed with the sound, and Dmitri wanted to cover his ears. This was not proper. The Counts were supposed to judge Vorjuric, not applaud him. 

The Lord Guardian of the Circle slammed his lance on the floor, and the Counts fell silent. There was something expectant about the quiet, and all eyes went to the Lord Regent. There was a kind of contained energy to Regent Vorkosigan’s stillness, and it was easy for Dmiri to see how the regent could command fleets in battle. When he spoke, his voice was steady and patient.

“You claim that the people of Csorna plotted treason against their Emperor,” Regent Vorkosigan said. “By your own words, this is now a matter for the Emperor’s Eyes, who are charged with investigating plots against His Imperial Majesty. Until they can uncover the truth, there will be no further executions.” 

Count Vorjuric said, “Of course, my Lord Regent. I have the greatest confidence in ImpSec. They saved my life from a terrorist plot two years ago, and they avenged my father’s death. It is not the fault of the Emperor’s Eyes that traitors walk freely among our Districts, plotting rebellion against the Emperor.” 

“No,” he said, speaking into a silence that was suddenly charged with fear. “It is the fault of the Emperor’s advisors. Men who permit galactic influence to poison our society, who stand by as revolutionaries preach regicide on every street corner. It was not so in Emperor Dorca’s day, or in Emperor Ezar’s, but the Imperium is sorely misgoverned in these days. Even its greatest defenders, the best among all the Vor, have fallen victim to foreign lies.”

For a long minute, no one spoke. Dmitri found himself watching the Vorbarra armsmen waiting against the walls, holding his breath as he waited for their reaction. The Regent met Vorjuric’s eyes, and neither man looked away. Vorjuric said softly, “I must return to my District, my brother Counts. My Lord Regent. I trust ImpSec, but I do not trust our Emperor’s advisors. I do not have confidence in their ability to guide His Imperial Majesty.”

Vorjuric turned and walked out, and Dmitri felt a hand tugging at his arm. Irina was standing next to him, and he saw his own shock mirrored on her face. They said nothing while they walked out of the gallery and down the stairs, past armsmen and servants, all of them ignorant of what had just happened. They would learn soon enough.

There were more Vorbarra armsmen outside the Vorhartung Castle doors, and Dmitri thought he could spot Imperial Security agents hidden among the trees. The stairs outside were quiet and empty, and Dmitri had plenty of time to think as he made his way down the winding path to the Great Square. 

The Regent was not the Emperor, but they spoke with the Emperor’s Voice. Even a Count did not name the Regent  _ unfit _ to the Regent’s face. Vorjuric had proclaimed it for everyone to hear, and the rumors would be rushing across Vorbarra Sultana. By tomorrow morning, all of high society would know that Vorjuric had denounced Vorkosigan.

Right now, though, the city still went about its business undisturbed. A courting couple walked past, lost in their own world, and a handful of bored municipal guards stood under a statue of Emperor Dorca on horseback, barely looking up as Dmitri and Irina walked past them. Csorna was under martial law, but most of the capital did not know or care. It was not wise or safe to get involved in politics. 

When they were halfway across the Great Square, far away from the handful of passerby, Irina suddenly stopped. “Dmitri,” she said. “You know all about this kind of...Vor thing. Has a Regent ever been impeached by the Council of Counts? Is that even  _ legal _ ?”

Dmitri said, “Traditionally, Regents who are considered unfit by the Council of Counts are usually charged with treason.” Lord Regent Phillip Vorarundell had been hacked to death on the floor of the Council, then posthumously convicted of plotting against the Emperor’s life. “There is only one case where a Regent was impeached with a vote of no confidence. The Emperor’s mother, Lady Regent Marie Vorbarra, lost her office because the Counts felt that she was too weak to lead the Imperium.” 

It seemed almost treasonous to remove a Regent that the Emperor had appointed, but there was a precedent. “The new Regent murdered Princess Marie and her infant son,” Dmitri told Irina. “Irina, if the Council did replace Vorkosigan…” He halted, unsure of what he should say. Of what he would do. 

“Cheer up, Dmitri,” Irina said. “Count Vorjuric doesn’t have the votes. He might want to kick Vorkosigan out of office, but it’s just words.” She smiled coldly. “In Emperor Ezar’s day, those words would have gotten him killed, but Regent Vorkosigan is soft.” 

Dmitri said, “Honorable, Irina. The word you’re looking for is honorable.” Regent Vorkosigan would not murder Count Vorjuric because the Count plotted his removal. He would not murder Vorjuric because the Count had slaughtered four of his own liegepeople in cold blood. He would leave Count Vorjuric’s judgement to the Counts, and the Counts would do nothing, because everything Vorjuric had done was entirely legal.

Entirely legal. Count Vorjuric was the chief magistrate of Vorjuric’s District, and his Word was life or death to those who lived within. “He killed them,” Dmitri said, more to himself than to Irina. “They weren’t guilty of anything, and he killed them anyway.” 

Irina shrugged carelessly, but the smile was gone from her face. “The little people challenged the boss’s authority, and his enforcers put them in the ground. All that pretty talk of custom and tradition makes for a nice story, but at the end of the day the Big Man does what the Big Man wants.” She looked at Dmitri, and he could see something very cold in her eyes. “That’s why I joined ImpSec, Vorling. It’s better to be the enforcer.” 

They walked through the night in silence, making their way back towards Imperial Security Headquarters. The Major would have a shuttle loaded with fast-penta by the time they arrived, and then they would be off to Csorna. At least they could see that the innocent were cleared of false suspicion. Dmitri would be very careful to ask all of the suspects about their past participation in terrorist plots, and he would avoid any questions about their feelings. It was wrong to condemn a man for his private thoughts, and it would be twice as wrong to condemn them for thoughts that Dmitri shared. 

Looking back, Dmitri saw that the Vorbarra colors no longer flew above Vorharthaung Castle. The Regent was gone, and the Counts would be leaving as well, traveling back to their townhouses or their Districts. Count Vorjuric had already departed, no doubt eager to make more arrests. 

A bright light flared in the sky, high above the city, and Dmitri watched it flicker and die. It looked like the beginning of a fireworks show, but nothing followed the first brilliant explosion. Irina was moving on at a brisk pace, and he hurried to rejoin her, feeling the cold start to creep through his jacket.

Headquarters loomed over them as they approached, a brutal concrete monstrosity that seemed to loom menacingly over the nearby buildings. It would be busy with activity, as his colleagues tried to keep track of the inevitable spike in League activity and deal with the new threat from Count Vorjuric. He was not the only one who would be missing sleep tonight. 

His wrist comm hummed, and he glanced at it. 

BOMB ATTACK

COUNT VORJURIC DEAD

REPORT TO HQ AT ONCE 

A Count of the Imperium was dead, and all that Dmitri could think about was Eleanor Matthews falling to the ground, blood welling from between her fingers as she clutched at her throat. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dmitri stood against the wall, perfectly still and silent, and watched the men around the table. 

This was his first time at one of these meetings, but Major Neumann had made his duties perfectly clear. He was there to listen and learn, like the other two apprentices waiting behind their superior officers. It was an old tradition dating back to the Cetagandan War, when a subordinate might be called to step into their superior’s position at any time.

Major Neumann said, “I failed. I knew that Count Vorjuric was in danger, and now he is dead.” His voice was calm and dispassionate, as if he was discussing someone else’s disaster. “The identity of his killer is still unknown, but every dissident on the planet wanted to kill Vorjuric. I welcome any assistance your offices can provide in this matter.”

Commodore Vordurand shook his head. He was a powerfully built man, a veteran of Komarr and Escobar, and he looked the part of an Imperial officer in undress greens covered in medals. “I don’t think I’ll be of much help,” he said. “This seems like a purely domestic matter, not something that would involve Counterintelligence.” He gave Neumann a faint smile. “No matter what the broadcasts say, we can’t blame everything on the Cetagandans.” 

“Count Vorjuric was my department.” Colonel Rostov stretched out in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. He was as tall as Vordurand was short, with thinning black hair and undress greens that didn’t have a single decoration hanging from them. “But I don’t think this was the work of a rival Count. Vorjuric usually got along very well with his peers, if not with our Regent. In this case, the obvious explanation seems to be the correct one.” 

Neither of them sounded like they were condemning Neumann or the Prole Office, but Dmitri still felt that they were on trial. The bare concrete room looked more like a prison than a meeting room, and the two uniformed officers could have been a tribunal dispassionately discussing their failure. A Count had died, and it was clear who was at fault. 

Neumann looked down at the papers laid out on the table in front of him. “Count Vorjuric and his driver were killed by a small bomb,” he told them. “A bomb hidden within their aircar’s control panel. This was clearly an inside job, and one of the Count’s armsmen has gone missing. The League may have had the motive, but why would they wait until now if they had a mole among the armsmen?” 

“Maybe the assassination was a lone wolf attack,” Vordurand suggested. “Daniel Lewis might have been furious at his Count just shooting people in the street, so he decided to take revenge on their behalf.” 

Neumann said, “Maybe. We have nine different League groups trying to take credit, but none of them know the details. If this was an attack by a terrorist cell, someone will claim it properly. Until then…”

Rostov laughed suddenly. “I wouldn’t want to be in the Director’s shoes right now,” he said. “It’s been five years since the assassination of a Count, and the rest of them won’t be pleased. They’ll want the murderers caught by dawn, and they won’t listen to Illyan when he asks them to be patient.” 

“ _ Director  _ Illyan,” Vordurand said sharply. “We are supposed to be in a new era, Colonel. A time when this sort of thing simply doesn’t happen. The last murdered Count was killed by his brother in a family squabble; we haven’t had a Count assassinated on our watch since the Pretendership. The Regent simply cannot afford this kind of political disruption at the present moment!” 

“Assassins don’t care about your “new era”,” Rostov said, ignoring the flicker of anger that ran across Vordurand’s face. “At least they killed Count Vorjuric and not someone who was actually useful to the government, like Minister Quintillan or Count Vorhalas. Maybe now that mess in Csorna will be sorted out without another uprising.” 

“It will,” Major Neumann said. “The new Count Vorjuric is a reasonable man, and he doesn’t blame the protestors for his father’s death. He has already ordered the release of Miklos Vorjuric’s prisoners.” Dmitri did his best to conceal his relief. Six months of undercover work had given him some experience hiding his emotions, and no one could hope to rise in Imperial Security if their face was an open book. 

The three of them sat in silence for a while around the round table in the center of the room, and Dmitri examined his senior officers. Colonel Vorcaron was by far the youngest, and he had only been in charge of the Counterintelligence Office for a few years. Colonel Rostov was Major Neumann’s age, and he’d started running the Vor Office under Captain Negri. Major Neumann sat between them, dressed in a black suit and looking like an elderly prole who had become hopelessly lost. 

Dmitri didn’t fully understand office politics, but it wasn’t hard to see why the old guard would quarrel with the new. The Major had made it very clear that a junior lieutenant had no business in those disputes, and Dmitri had noticed that his teacher tended to stay out of them himself. If he was ordered to give an opinion, though, he would say that Rostov had a better point than Vorcaron; why would terrorists care about the Regent’s new era? 

Vorjuric had dealt with his people in the manner of the Bloody Centuries, and the League had returned his violence in kind. He knew that the thought bordered on treason, but Dmitri did not care. If every Count treated their people this way, the proles would rise up, and they would be right to do so. 

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Dmitri turned towards the sound, and Irina walked in, not sparing him a glance as she handed the Major a sheet of paper. “We got a call,” she told Neumann. “They knew all the details of how the Count died, and they knew about our missing armsman. According to the caller, Daniel Lewis was a soldier of the Vorbarra Sultana Ninth Regiment.”

His teacher’s face went utterly blank. Rostov leaned forward, a gleam of interest in his eyes, while Vorcaron blinked in confusion. “Weren’t they wiped out?,” he asked. “Director Illyan used them as an example of a textbook counterinsurgency operation. He said that no one even uses the name because it would be bad for morale.” 

“Yes,” Major Neumann said, staring at the paper as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. He sounded oddly distant. 

Vordurand rose out of his chair. “My resources are at your disposal, Major,” he said. “Counterintelligence is happy to assist the Prole Office during this time of crisis.” He nodded respectfully and strode out, no doubt eager to get back to his own work now that the Count’s death was clearly someone else’s responsibility. 

“Interesting,” Rostov declared. “Wasn’t that Vorkotov’s theory, Jonas? He thought that one cell of the Ninth had somehow survived the Ministry’s purge. I didn’t believe him at the time, but now it seems your man was right.”

Major Neumann never talked about Pavel Vorkatov. He never talked about Colonel Rostov, either, though they had to know each other. Sometimes he wanted to ask Irina, but she would just tell him to take his questions to the Major. It was strange to think that Neumann had a past before he became the Major, that he had once been a lieutenant like Dmitri.

Neumann said, “He was a brilliant investigator. Pavel had an extraordinary ability for piecing together a case from the most obscure pieces of evidence, finding patterns where others would only see chaos.” The Major bowed his head. “But he is gone, and we must continue without him.” 

Two years ago, Major Neumann had spoken of wanting a successor who cared about the people Imperial Security hurt along the way, who wanted to create a better Imperial Security for a kinder Barrayar. But caring was no substitute for ability, and Dmitri knew that no one would ever describe him as brilliant.

“I thought you would never take a new apprentice,” Rostov said. Brown eyes examined Dmitri, hunting for some hint of why Neumann had chosen him, and he stood stiffly at attention. After a moment, Rostov leaned back in his wooden chair. “I’m curious about this case, Jonas. Would you keep me up to date on your progress?”

“Of course.” The Major rubbed his eyes wearily. “Here we are, sitting around a table and sharing information. We even have regular meetings between departments. Can you imagine what Captain Negri would have thought?” 

Colonel Rostov chuckled. “Our old teacher would be horrified,” he said cheerfully. “Why would you waste valuable information by sharing it? But Illyan says that ImpSec is one big happy family now, and we wouldn’t want to disagree with our Director.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll be back to check in later, but right now I have another Vor conspiracy to arrest. Our ruling class won’t manage to overthrow the Regent until they remember that the servant class has ears. Damned amateurs, talking treason at dinner with half a dozen servants listening in.” Rostov shook his head in amusement. “Best of luck with your proles, Jonas.”

His footsteps were still fading down the hallway when Irina shut and locked the door. The Major was gazing off into the distance, and Dmitri decided to seize the moment. “Sir,” he said. “I didn’t know that you and Colonel Rostov were proteges of Captain Negri. Were you friends during your early days in Imperial Security?”

“Friends,” Neumann said, as if he was puzzled by the word. “Friends? There were no friends in Captain Negri’s ImpSec, Dmitri. He didn’t trust friendship, and he didn’t have proteges. There were only people who were useful to Captain Negri, and people who weren’t. Vanya and I were useful enough to earn our positions, but we only started talking to each other when the Captain was dead. You had to be very careful about who you spoke with in those days; Captain Negri saw plots everywhere, and he was right most of the time.”

He shook his head briskly and beckoned Dmitri closer. “I need you to take Lieutenant Vorkotov’s notes and investigate the destruction of the Ninth,” Major Neumann said. “Make sure everyone knows that a cell survived, and that all of ImpSec is hunting the League assassins who killed Count Vorjuric. Offer full immunity and rich rewards to anyone who can help us.”

Leaning in towards him, the Major lowered his voice. “We have to find them, Dmitri,” he said urgently. “The Counts will demand vengeance for the death of one of their own. There  _ will  _ be retribution for Vorjuric’s death, and our duty is to ensure that it falls upon the guilty.” 

“Yes, sir.” When he closed his eyes, he could see Vorkotov smiling at him from the picture on the Major’s desk, young and proud and eager to serve his Emperor. Dmitri would not avenge Count Vorjuric, but he would gladly hunt Vorkotov’s killers. He would find the guilty and protect the innocent. And if he died, he would die as a Vor and a soldier, facing his enemies in honest battle.

Last night he had been afraid and uncertain, frightened of what Vorjuric might do but powerless to stop him. Now his duty was clear. By killing Count Vorjuric, the Ninth had restored things as they should be, with ImpSec hunting the League and the terrorists hunting them in turn. 

Dmitri saluted the Major, and marched back to the long war. 


	5. Chapter 5

There was nothing more exhausting than hunting a ghost. 

Dmitri hadn’t gotten more than five hours of sleep a night in the last week. He had spread the word among the criminals of the  _ caravanserai _ , spoken with the investigators of the Vorbarr Sultana Municipal Guard, and reviewed the interrogation records of every League prisoner with even a slight connection to the Ninth. All of his work had provided him with...nothing. 

Most League terrorists proclaimed their smallest accomplishments for all the world to hear. They sought publicity like a Minister sought bribes, and the death of a Count should have had the Ninth declaring the news to all of Vorbarr Sultana. Instead, they had sent a note to Major Neumann and then gone completely silent. It made no sense; if they wanted to keep their involvement secret, why tell the Major at all? If they wanted it to be known, why not spread the word among their friends and allies? 

The sun was rising over the horizon, and he was sitting on a park bench outside an old office building, fighting to stay awake. Only the thought of Irina having to bail him out of jail kept him from going to sleep right there. He took another drink from a plastic cup of disgusting black coffee, trying not to taste the horrible brew as it slid down his throat. One more look, just in case he’d missed something the last dozen times. 

He opened the folder and considered Pavel Vorkotov’s last case. It held little in the way of evidence, just page after page of speculation. Vorkotov had believed that there was a surviving cell of the Ninth. He theorized that it had gone underground when the rest of the regiment had been destroyed, emerging only to provide advice and assistance to other League cells. Several interrogations under fast-penta showed that  _ someone  _ was offering anonymous guidance to new League organizations, teaching them how to organize cells and avoid detection. A scribbled note by Major Neumann mentioned that, two years after Vorkotov’s death, they had found a veteran Augustgrad cell conducting outreach to novice terrorists.

That was a dead end. Even if the Ghost was real, there was no clear proof that they were the ones offering advice. Dmitri flipped through the folder, travelling further back in time. According to Vorkotov, the Ghost had briefly gone active during the Pretendership. In small, neat handwriting, he described how the Ghost had worked to cripple ImpSec’s operations under the cover of the civil war.

Four dead ImpSec officers. All of them decorated men with some experience fighting the Defense League, all of them killed during the chaos of the Pretendership. Dmitri was a veteran now, and he examined the pictures with a professional eye. Every man had been killed by a needle to the head, a mercifully swift death. No League cell had claimed responsibility, and Major Neumann’s note suggested that it was probably one of Vordarian’s operatives. After all, why wouldn’t the League take credit? 

Last of all, Pavel Vorkotov had identified what he believed was the Ghost’s first operation. A Vor man dead in a cheap hotel room, killed by a bad batch of drugs. Pavel’s small, neat handwriting mentioned “the Ninth’s last mission”, but Dmitri had no idea what that was. Why was Tomas Vorkeller important?

He was out here in the freezing cold seeking an answer to that question. Major Neumann had told him that he needed to hear from the source himself, and that he wasn’t to make any record of their conversation. That was unusually cryptic, but the Major’s red eyes had suggested that he’d enjoyed even less sleep than Dmitri, so he had saluted and done as he was told. 

A small man in shabby clothes walked past Dmitri, ignoring him completely, and Dmitri turned to stare at him. Wearing the cheapest possible suit, reeking of gin at eight in the morning, oddly crooked nose...it was his witness. Rising to his feet, he followed Samuel Roberts towards the door, listening to him mutter curses in Greek and French while he fumbled with his keys. 

“Sir?,” Dmitri said politely. Roberts whirled, crouching into a defensive position. “Sir, an old friend sent me. I’m sorry for showing up so early.” Roberts visibly relaxed, putting on a shaky smile, and Dmitri raised his hands to show that they were empty. “Could we talk in private?”

The inside of Roberts’s office was surprisingly neat, unlike the man himself. There was a small comconsole perched atop a rickety metal desk, a coffee machine on a side table, and a stack of newspapers. The front page proclaimed “BRIBERY SCANDAL UNCOVERED!” in bold black letters. Roberts dropped into a swivel chair behind the desk, gesturing for Dmitri to take a creaky wooden chair that groaned as he settled his weight into it.

Roberts said, “Sorry, Lieutenant. I’m a little jumpy on account of my last article.” He gave Dmitri a lopsided grin. “My old boss always used to say that you aren’t doing your job if you aren’t making people angry, and I’m doing my job.” 

“Yes, sir,” Dmitri said respectfully. “Sir, the Major sent me…”

“Yeah.” Roberts took a bottle and two glasses out of one of the desk drawers. “Drink?” When Dmitri shook his head, he poured one for himself, tossed it down, and poured another. “He said you had special clearance to learn about Tomas Vorkeller. It’s been a while since he sent an apprentice around, but my memory is as good as ever.”

“You met Lieutenant Vorkotov?,” Dmitri asked. “Was this during his investigation?” He leaned forward, watching Roberts intently. The grin slowly faded, and Roberts nodded.

“He was hunting for a last cell of the Ninth,” he told Dmitri. “Lieutenant Vorkotov laid out a whole case for a secret terrorist cell operating right under ImpSec’s nose. Didn’t have a bit of evidence, though. He was convinced- absolutely convinced- that they’d killed Tomas Vorkeller.” 

Roberts emptied the glass, then poured a third for himself and one for Dmitri. He slid the drink across the table. “Drink up, and I’ll tell you a story.” Reluctantly, Dmitri raised the glass and sipped, choking on the horrible taste. He lowered his drink, still three-quarters full, and Roberts banged his glass down empty.

“A long time ago,” he said. “My grandma used to tell stories like that, you know? I was a tiny little town in South Continent before I came to the big city. Haven’t been back in sixteen years.” He hiccuped, and Dmitri realized that Roberts was more than a little drunk. “A long time ago, there was a brave, handsome young investigative reporter who still had most of his hair. He wanted to search out the secrets of the powerful, but his damn boss made him run around writing feel-good pieces on local charities.” 

Dmitri nodded carefully. “Good. Now this reporter, he visited a soup kitchen at the edge of the  _ caravanserai _ . It was a nice enough place, doing good work, the kind of story that the authorities like. So he wrote a nice article for the newspaper.”

Roberts reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out an old, yellowing paper folder. He dumped it down, pulled it open, and tossed Dmitri a clipping. HIGH VOR LADY HELPS THE NEEDY. A plain young woman stared back at the camera, holding a platter of food. “Elise Vorradic,” Roberts said. He drank directly from the bottle, not bothering with the glass. “Nice girl. Her family were big Progressives, so they let her come out and spend a year helping the little people before she settled down and got married.”

He brought out another photograph. This one showed Elise Vorradic standing next to another young woman of roughly the same age. The second woman smiled nervously at the camera while Elise wore a polite, distant expression. She had brown hair where Elise was fair, she was perhaps half an inch taller, and Dmitri saw that she did not have a Vorfemme knife at her side. 

“Anna Fabron didn’t really want to work in a soup kitchen,” Roberts told him. His voice was still steady, even though he’d downed half a bottle of gin. “She was a country girl, and she never liked Vorbarr Sultana. But her lady had decided to spend some time helping the poor, and Anna had been her companion since Elise Vorradic was nine years old.” 

The third picture was a tall, elegantly dressed man with two swords at his side. Tomas Vorkeller. ImpSec’s file on him suggested that he was an unremarkable Vor man with a dangerous drug habit, but Dmitri had stopped trusting ImpSec records a long time ago. “Vorkeller,” Roberts said quietly. “Vorkeller liked to visit the  _ caravanserai _ , and one night he dropped by the soup kitchen. He didn’t pay much attention to Elise, but he did talk with Anna. I heard a little bit of their conversation, all perfectly innocent. He told her a little about his family, and asked her about her own life.” 

“The next night, Anna Fabron just...disappeared.” Dmitri leaned in closer, and Roberts lowered his voice. “It was a big deal, and the municipal guard ran themselves ragged trying to find her. But they were looking in the  _ caravanserai _ , and I had a different suspect in mind. Vorkeller had an ugly reputation. But he was one of Prince Serg’s cronies…”

He broke off. Dmitri tried to force himself to be still and calm, like the Major, but one look at Roberts’s face told him that he had failed. “Vorkotov didn’t know, “ Roberts said, almost conversationally. “But I can see that you do. Well, that makes things easier.” 

“I went looking into Vorkeller,” he said. “He hadn’t been very careful. There was more than one mysterious disappearance that had occured while he was around, but none of the others had been the servant of a High Vor lady, so the municipal guard hadn’t noticed. People go missing all the time in the  _ caravanserai _ , and most of the time no one looks too hard. So I gathered evidence, I built my case, and one night a visitor dropped by to see me.” 

Dmitri could imagine Roberts waking up to a knock on the door. That kind of midnight visit had been a common feature of Emperor Ezar’s reign, and it still happened under Regent Vorkosigan. The only question was why Samuel Roberts was still alive. 

Roberts said, “He was only a captain back then, but Neumann was just as polite as always. We talked for a little while, and he explained that I had accidentally stumbled into an ImpSec investigation, and he would take it as a personal favor if I would give him all of my evidence.” He laughed humorlessly. “Your boss is a nice man, so he let me keep the photographs. And before he left, Neumann made sure that I knew that the Ministry of Political Education had also discovered my activities. I spent some time with friends after that, and I didn’t come back to Vorbarr Sultana until the Ministry was gone.”

“What happened?,” Dmitri asked. He could hear his voice shaking, and he fought to calm down. “What happened to Anna Fabron?” 

“I never found out.” Roberts glanced around him, then lowered his voice even more. “But Elise Vorradic never stopped looking. When the municipal guard finally dropped the case, she hired private investigators. She was absolutely convinced that Tomas Vorkeller knew what had happened to Anna. So she kept looking, and eventually she found some friends who were more than willing to believe the worst of a Vor man from a good family.” 

Dmitri said, “The People’s Defense League.” He took a deep drink from his glass, knowing what would come next. “Elise Vorradic met with the Ninth.”

Roberts nodded, eyes sharp and intent. “They tracked Vorkeller down to a mansion along the coast,” he told Dmitri. “And late one night, a group of terrorists broke into the mansion. I don’t know what they found there- no one knows what they found there- because on the next night, the Ministry of Political Education exterminated the whole Ninth Regiment.” 

It all came down to Prince Serg. The Ministry had been happy to infiltrate and manipulate the Ninth until they threatened the Prince, and then all of them had to die. Tomas Vorkeller had been the Prince’s friend, and Anna Fabron...Father’s letter had told him about what the Prince did to Escobaran prisoners. Long before the War, he had been doing the same to his own people.

Dmitri downed the glass in one swallow, feeling the liquid burn as it slid down his throat. He could feel Roberts’s gaze upon him, and after a long moment the older man spoke. “I still burn an offering every year,” he told Dmitri. “For Elise and Anna, but not just for them. They had friends and family, people who would remember, but the others didn’t have anyone.” 

He nodded wordlessly, and Samuel Roberts took out a piece of paper. Dmitri watched as he inscribed the names, writing slowly and carefully. When he was done, Roberts carefully folded the paper and placed it inside an envelope. “Thank you for coming by, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. 

As he walked out of the office, Dmitri could feel the envelope inside his jacket. Nineteen names. Nineteen people who had simply disappeared, with no questions asked, because they didn’t matter. And these were only the names that Samuel Roberts had discovered; who knew how many others there had been? 

No one would ever tell their story. Samuel Roberts would keep his silence because of fear. Because if he said a word, Major Neumann would come for him in the night, as he had before. Or maybe he wouldn’t come, not this time. 

Maybe he’d send Dmitri. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

“It wasn’t the League,” Dmitri said. “But I think you already knew that.”

He was too exhausted to be properly angry, and it had been the Major who sent him to Samuel Roberts. Even if he had hidden the truth from everyone else, he had chosen to share it with Dmitri. 

Neumann said, “I suspected. It was necessary to confirm that suspicion, and we needed to be seen investigating the League. If the true perpetrator sees us hunting for the Ghost of the Ninth, they may not realize that we weren’t fooled.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Unfortunately, we still have no evidence pointing us to the actual murderer.” 

Dmitri  _ had  _ been fooled by the cover story, at least at first. “Who do you suspect, sir?,” he asked, hearing the weariness in his voice. It was getting harder and harder to keep his focus, and at some point he was just going to go to sleep sitting up. He had no idea how an old man like Neumann managed this job. 

“You tell me,” the Major commanded. “You’re an investigator, Dmitri. Think it through, and consider who else might have a motive for killing Vorjuric.” Money, power, hate, safety. The Big Four. Dmitri had believed that the League killed Vorjuric out of hate, but what if the motive had been something different? 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Neumann watched him with unreadable brown eyes, silent and patient. This room was secure- Dmitri had checked it himself- so no one outside could hear him. Only the Major, and he would not denounce Dmitri for saying the obvious. 

“Us,” Dmitri said quietly. “We had an excellent motive, sir. Vorjuric was plotting against the Regent. Daniel Lewis could have been an agent of Imperial Security.” 

Major Neumann nodded pleasantly, as though they were discussing the weather rather than the murder of a Count. “That is one definite possibility,” he said. “I considered it myself, but I ended up deciding that it probably wasn’t an ImpSec job. If I ordered you to kill Vorjuric, how would you have done it? 

Dmitri glanced quickly around the room, checking to be sure that the door was closed and there were no spies hiding in the corners. Even asking the question seemed treasonous, though there was no real law regulating whether the Emperor’s secret police could simply murder a Count without a trial. If they had done it, it would not be the first time. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought.

It was disturbingly easy to imagine. The timing was a problem, since Vorjuric had just finished denouncing the Regent, but that was easy enough to explain. They hadn’t known what Vorjuric would say, and afterwards it was too late to reschedule. Detonate the bomb, kill the Count, frame the League. A simple operation, with one obvious flaw. 

“The cover story was wrong,” he said, opening his eyes. “If I killed Vorjuric, I would have found a culprit already. It would be easy to frame a known League cell, and we could make sure that none of them were taken alive. And I would never accuse the Ghost of the Ninth, since I’m not even sure that they exist.”

Imperial Security was too experienced in political assassination to make such a mistake. Dmitri took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and continued. “Count Vorjuric died. Another man became Count Vorjuric. Miklos Vorjuric’s son disagreed with his father’s politics, and he benefits from his father’s death. Has he been questioned?”

The Major said, “Count Alexander Vorjuric has been interviewed by ImpSec, but he has been...less than cooperative.” A small frown crept over his face. “Suspiciously uncooperative, in fact. That’s why I’m sending you to talk with him tonight.”

Back to Csorna. Blood on the cobblestones, screams all around him. “Yes, sir. I saved his father’s life, so maybe he’ll be willing to share something with me.” 

If Miklos Vorjuric had died then, maybe Eleanor Matthews would still be alive. No. There had been other people in the conference center, innocent people, and Dmitri could not have known what Vorjuric would do. Murder before thirty thousand witnesses, but it wasn’t really murder, was it? 

A Count had the power of life and death within their District. Count Vorjuric had every right by law and custom to kill Eleanor Matthews. Prince Serg had broken the law, but he was a Prince and was his Imperial father’s right to pardon him for any offense. Imperial Security had protected both of them, and now he was helping to catch Count Vorjuric’s killer.

Major Neumann said it was the right thing to do, that they were protecting the innocent by finding the guilty. But it was Neumann who had hidden Prince Serg’s crimes, Neumann who had erased Serg’s victims. His teacher had shielded the guilty and betrayed the innocent. 

His teacher had spared Samuel Roberts when he could have killed him. His teacher had told Dmitri the truth when he could have lied to him. Major Neumann had once told Dmitri that he was trying to do better, and Dmitri didn’t think he had been lying. 

“I trust you, sir,” he told the Major. “I’ll go to speak with the new Count Vorjuric at once.” Dmitri rose to his feet, turned to go, and paused. “Sir? Thank you for sending me to Mister Roberts. I’m glad that you trusted me.” 

Major Neumann said softly, “I told you once, Dmitri. I want a successor who will do better than I did. Did he give you the names?”

Dmitri nodded. “Good. Good man, Dmitri. We’ll talk when you get back.” He only looked back once before he left the room. Major Neumann was bent over the desk, staring off into space as though he saw a ghost, one hand reaching up to touch the long white scar that ran down the left side of his face. 

Irina was waiting for him outside the Major’s office. She was in civilian clothes, a simple brown tunic and matching trousers, but she had a nerve disruptor at her hip and a needle rifle strapped to her back. They marched down the long, winding corridor in silence, passing by the interrogation cell where Dmitri had watched the Major speak with Comrade Sergeant Aubert. He had thought that the old man was only courteous to Aubert to get what he wanted, but now he believed it was more than that. 

Aubert had been a soldier fighting for a different Barrayar. A Barrayar where the Vor couldn’t simply do as they pleased, where a Count couldn’t murder a woman for defying him. If the Regent was powerless to check the abuses of the Counts, if no one would make Imperial Security answer for their crimes, then something like the People’s Defense League was inevitable. 

He glanced over at his senior colleague, but Irina appeared remarkably untroubled. If he knew about Samuel Roberts, she definitely did; Irina had been with the Major since the last years of Ezar’s reign, and he was under no illusions about who Neumann trusted most. Maybe she was simply free from his ideas about how the system  _ should  _ work. The Big Man gave orders, the enforcers carried them out, and anyone who got ideas bled out on a cobbled street. 

Irina pulled out a key and unlocked the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor, and they made their way up a long flight of stairs leading towards the surface. The stairwell was cramped and dimly lit, with only a single bulb casting its pale light over the rough concrete surface of the steps. Irina stopped at the landing one floor below the surface, and he saw a small, bright smile spread over her face. 

“Look down, Dmitri,” she said, and he followed her gaze. There was a broad dark stain across the concrete, a mark that he had never seen before. They had passed this way a hundred times, but he had always been looking up. 

“It’s a bloodstain,” Irina told him. “Captain Antonov’s blood, to be exact. I shot him at the start of the Pretendership when he tried to arrest the Major. Antonov had the old man at gunpoint, but he didn’t think he needed to worry about a woman.”

Dmitri wasn’t exactly sure of what to say; “Congratulations” seemed inappropriate, even if the man had been a traitor. Irina was smiling fondly at the bloodstain, and he realized that housekeeping should have removed it a long time ago. She must have asked them to leave it there as a memento, like Mom keeping a lock of hair from her first horse. 

Irina said, “He used to call me Neumann’s  _ caravanserai  _ bitch.” Her voice was warm and friendly, and Dmitri fought the urge to take a step back. “Antonov said that women had no place in ImpSec, that we couldn’t do a man’s work. Even after the purge of Political Education, he thought that I was nothing more than a whore from the slums.” 

She turned towards Dmitri, and he saw that the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “He wasn’t entirely wrong,” she said. “If the old man hadn’t found me, I probably would have ended up as a prostitute. Captain Negri’s ImpSec liked recruits without family or friends, people who had nowhere else to go.”

He stared down at the bloodstain so that she wouldn’t see the pity on his face. Dmitri’s family had been poor, but he had never truly been hungry, and Mom had always been there for him. For Irina, starving and alone, the Major must have seemed like a shining prince out of the old stories.

It was impossible to know who Irina could have been if she had a better choice. Perhaps she would be a nurse, or a lawyer, or even a teacher, though it was horrifying to imagine Irina working with children. The woman standing before him with a smile on her lips and blood on her hands was born of Ezar Vorbarra’s Barrayar, and there was no way to change who she had been or what she had done. 

They could only try to do better. 


	7. Chapter 7

Children were placing flowers on the cobblestones.

The smoke of death offerings rose into the sky, and thousands of people in black armbands stood vigil around the Count’s palace. Csorna had gathered to grieve for its fallen champions, and Dmitri and Irina went unnoticed as they made their approach. She was wearing a simple black dress, the first time he had seen her in anything like proper women’s clothing, and Dmitri wore a matching black suit.

Dmitri dropped to his knees before the brazier, and Irina used a small knife to cut away a lock of his hair. He held out his hand over the fire, feeling the heat against his skin, and let the hair drop into the brazier, disappearing among a thousand identical offerings. Irina gave no offering of her own, but she did bow her head respectfully. 

_ God, we poor sinners pray for your mercy. Help us to remember the example of Eleanor Matthews and her fellow martyrs, who confronted the powerful as the first saints did, armed with nothing but their faith in what is right. Help us to know what is right, and do what is right, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.  _

The last part would be the most difficult; Dmitri had never been very forgiving. It was easier with Irina and the Major, who repented of their sins, but they were supposed to forgive their enemies, as Christ had forgiven his persecutors even as he suffered on the cross. Dmitri did not feel Christian love in his heart when he looked up at Vorjuric’s palace.

Perhaps with time and distance his heart would soften. He doubted it, though. Vorjuric had been entrusted with great power and privilege, and he had answered his subjects’ petition with murder. A loving God could forgive those sins, even as he had forgiven St. Paul; Dmitri was not as merciful as the Lord. 

They made their way slowly towards a servants’ entrance set in the side of the palace. There were no armed men waiting outside, only a servant in somber black, but two enormous armsmen leveled nerve disruptors at them the second they stepped inside. Dmitri held very still while a third man searched him with professional thoroughness, taking his com, his watch, and two syringes of fast-penta. It seemed almost disrespectful to Imperial Security, but their Count had recently been assassinated and they would naturally be careful of his son’s life. 

Also, they had guns. There were many stories of the vengeance that Imperial Security exacted after one of their own was killed, but all of those stories began with an Imperial Security agent dying. The green-and-white liveried men looked more than a little jumpy, and Dmitri suspected they might be in the mood to shoot first and consider consequences later. When the armsman completed his search, he gave the man a polite smile, as if to say that there were no hard feelings.

The man did not return his smile. Dmitri made a note of that detail while he straightened his jacket and waited for the armsmen to escort them inside. The Prole Office did not spend much time among the high and mighty, but Dmitri thought that they would usually be more polite to the Emperor’s secret police. Especially when these secret police agents had once saved their Count’s life. 

One of the armsmen had a quiet conversation on his wrist comm, and the three men fell into formation around them. The leader was in front, with the other two positioned behind Dmitri and Irina. Dmitri casually glanced behind him and saw that both of them had their nerve disruptors out. They weren’t pointing them at Dmitri and Irina, but they weren’t pointing them  _ away  _ from Dmitri and Irina, either. 

Count Vorjuric’s palace was a Time of Isolation structure with sturdy stone walls, faded tapestries, and suits of armor beside every doorway. Unfortunately, Dmitri was too busy thinking about the nerve disruptors to properly appreciate his surroundings. The search could have been justified as simple caution, but a Count’s armsmen did not usually aim guns at the secret police. Things might be worse than Major Neumann had suspected, and Dmitri took a moment to hope that Alexander Vorjuric wasn’t plotting against the Regent. It was unlikely that a traitor would show his hand and then simply let them walk out of his palace.

When they did arrive at Count Vorjuric’s office, six more armsmen were waiting for them. Most of them had excellent poker faces, but one of the younger men had unconcealed hostility in his eyes. The door swung open, and a quiet voice said, “Bring them in. William, Boris, come in with them.” 

At this point, complaining that they had asked for a private interview would have been absurd, so Dmitri said nothing. Irina entered with a quick, confident stride, and Dmitri did his best to imitate her. It certainly wouldn’t help to hesitate, though some small, sensible part of him thought that he would be better off remembering an urgent appointment somewhere else. 

The door closed with a hollow  _ thud _ , and they were alone with Count Vorjuric and two oathsworn men who would kill them at his word. Alexander Vorjuric was a small, plump man with plain features, utterly unlike his tall and handsome father. He sat behind an enormous desk and examined Dmitri and Irina with cold black eyes. 

“Lieutenant Vorremis,” he said. “Agent Irina. The two agents who saved my father’s life from Kristof Golitsin.” He did not sound grateful. “I suppose that ImpSec sent you because they thought I would trust you.”

Dmitri saw the flicker of rage in Vorjuric’s eyes, and made a decision. “Yes, sir,” he said respectfully. “That’s what they thought. But they were wrong. May I ask why you don’t trust Imperial Security?”

Alexander Vorjuric said, “No, Lieutenant. You may not.” This was wrong. A guilty man would refuse a fast-penta interrogation, but he would have an excuse. The Count was simply saying  _ No _ without explanation. 

The armsman behind him shifted his weight, and Dmitri could almost feel mthe presence of the gun aimed at his head. If Dmitri had been an assassin, here to kill his Count, the man was ready. 

An assassin. From Imperial Security. When the truth came to Dmitri, it was so painfully obvious that he almost laughed. Of course Alexander Vorjuric didn’t trust them. 

Traditionally, Imperial Security dealt with situations like this by denying everything. That obviously wasn’t working, so Dmitri decided to take a different approach. “Kristof Golitsin,” he said. “With your permission, Irina, perhaps I could discuss Golitsin with the Count?” 

She looked at him like he was mad, but he met her gaze steadily and after a moment she gave him a small, reluctant nod. “Kristof Golitsin,” Dmitri repeated. “He was a member of the terrorist Defense League, but his true allegiance did not lie with the Revolution.” There was no surprise on Count Alexander Vorjuric’s face, and Dmitri knew that he had guessed right. 

“Kristof Golitsin was an agent of the Ministry of Political Education. Count Anatoly Vorjuric’s death was a political assassination ordered by Emperor Ezar Vorbarra.” Alexander Vorjuric blinked, entirely unprepared to deal with an Imperial Security agent actually telling the truth. “You now suspect that Daniel Lewis was an agent of Imperial Security. You don’t have any reason to believe a word we say.” 

Dmitri held out a hand. “Give me the syringe of fast-penta,” he ordered. Count Vorjuric nodded his approval, and the armsmen placed the syringe in his hand. A brief stab of pain went through his arm when he activated it, but the sharp sensation was instantly soothed away by a dull, formless satisfaction. He vaguely knew that the fast-penta was clouding his mind, but it was hard to remember why he should care. 

“You,” Vorjuric stammered. He took a deep breath, then continued. “You admit that Political Education murdered my grandfather. Why should I believe that Imperial Security didn’t murder my father?” 

Dmitri said, “Sloppy. Imperial Security is a dishonorable organization, but we have experience murdering people. We would have done a better job framing the League.” Some distant part of his brain screamed in terror, but the fast-penta wiped away any inhibitions. “Also, while your father was obviously a terrible person who deserved to die, Regent Vorkosigan wouldn’t have given the order. He doesn’t assassinate Counts. Even if they deserve it, and your father…”

“Quiet,” Irina told him sternly. “Dmitri, who do you think did kill Count Miklos Vorjuric?”

“Whoever told his son about Golitsin,” Dmitri said, shocked by his own insight. “This is a frame job, but it isn’t ours. Someone is trying to make it look like Imperial Security is behind Vorjuric’s death. Why else would his son receive the news about Golitsin so soon after his father’s death? And Miklos Vorjuric didn’t know about Golitsin, because he said that he trusted Imperial Security in his last speech. The same speech where he bragged about being a murder…”

Irina said, “Shut up,” but she sounded quite pleased. Dmitri was glad that he had made her happy. Count Alexander Vorjuric did not look happy, but he did seem to be thinking. It was amazing how many problems you could solve by just talking to people. If they’d all told the truth from the start, they could have figured this out much earlier. 

Alexander Vorjuric reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. Dmitri carelessly snatched it from his hand, ignoring the snarl of anger from the armsman behind him. Holding it up to the light, he read the message.  **Kristof Golitsin was an agent of the Ministry of Political Education. Your father’s death was not the work of prole terrorists. Etienne Garnier knows the truth.**

The letter was unsigned. “You should have gone to the Regent with this,” Dmitri told Alexander Vorjuric. “Unless you thought he ordered it. But that’s just silly. If Regent Vorkosigan was going to murder Counts who plotted against him, he would have started much earlier. He could have made himself Emperor with the Service behind him, like Dorca. He wouldn’t be an usurper, though. Regent Vorkosigan is an honorable man.” He frowned. “Well, I always thought so. But he lied about Pri…”

He heard a faint hiss, felt a sharp sting against his arm, and suddenly he was on his knees, trembling uncontrollably. The world was spinning, and Irina gently helped him to his feet, holding him upright as he stumbled. This was either the worst or the best idea that Dmitri had ever had, and he was going to find out in the next few seconds. At least if this didn’t work, he was unlikely to live long enough to deal with the consequences. 

Count Alexander Vorjuric stared at him like he was a lunatic, and Dmitri giggled a little hysterically. He’d only experienced fast-penta once before, when he joined Imperial Security, and it was just as disturbing as he remembered. There was still a faint haze in his mind that made it hard to care about the fact that the armsmen were looming over him, waiting for their Count’s order.

Alexander Vorjuric said, “Contact the Regent’s office, William. Inform them that I require a secure line with Regent Vorkosigan  _ immediately _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the approaching holiday season, I won't post another section until 2021. I thought about trying to finish one more before the end of the year, but I don't want to rush and make mistakes. 
> 
> See you in January!


	8. Chapter 8

“I wasn’t aware that telling the truth was something we could actually do.”

Colonel Rostov grinned at Dmitri, who clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking. Rostov, Vordurand, and Major Neumann had gathered in the same bare concrete room, but this time it wasn’t the Major answering questions. 

“Honesty may be the one tactic that ImpSec has never used before,” Rostov said. “No wonder our enemies were unprepared. They expected us to lie to the new Count’s face. That’s what we do, after all. It was a solid plan, but they didn’t count on Lieutenant Vorremis.”

Neumann said, “Count Alexander Vorjuric has agreed not to pursue the matter publicly. For now.” He leaned forward in his chair, brown eyes sharp and intent. “I fully support Lieutenant Vorremis’s decision. Once it was obvious that Count Alexander knew the truth about Golitsin, further denial only would have confirmed his suspicions. By choosing to share information, the lieutenant showed that we were acting in good faith.” 

Rostov chuckled. “Acting in good faith! Captain Negri is turning in his grave, Jonas. We really are going soft.” His smile faded. “People aren’t properly scared of us anymore. No one would have tried to frame ImpSec back in Captain Negri’s day.”

“No one would have  _ needed  _ to frame ImpSec back in Captain Negri’s day,” the Major replied, sounding remarkably cheerful. “Any Count who claimed that Emperor Ezar was “unfit” would have suffered a fatal air car accident. It’s only under the Regent that a plot like this could actually work, as the Counts grow bolder and our own power diminishes.” 

Dmitri couldn’t tell whether Major Neumann thought those changes were good or bad. Personally, he thought that Regent Vorkosigan had done the right and honorable thing in dismantling the old Emperor’s secret police state. He did not think it would be a good idea to share those thoughts among the Emperor’s Security, especially right now. 

Instead, he stood at attention and did his best impersonation of a statue. The other two apprentices were as still and quiet as he was, and Dmitri realized that he didn’t know their names. He should learn them at some point; if he wasn’t court-martialed or forced to resign, he would be working with them in the future. 

Commodore Vordurand said, “It is not our place to question the Regent’s judgement, Major.” He scowled at Dmitri. “Your apprentice has chosen to give classified information away without the Director’s permission. I can’t approve of such reckless behavior from a junior officer.” His head swiveled towards Major Neumann. “And this Etienne Garnier is a well-known troublemaker, an unlicensed newspaper publisher who undermines our Regent’s government and Barrayaran society. Why has your Office failed to find and arrest him before?” 

Dmitri and Irina spent their days hunting for terrorists who wanted to blow up the government, not publishers who wrote about the evils of the Vor system. It was more than a little insulting that Vordurand thought they had nothing better to do with their time than arresting people like Garnier.

“I have often failed,” Major Neumann said, his hand tracing the long white scar running down his face. “I take full responsibility for my errors in this case, and I accept the Director’s judgement. But I am confident in our ability to locate Etienne Garnier.” 

“How?,” Vordurand demanded. “Garnier has escaped the municipal guard for years.” Dmitri doubted that was any great accomplishment. The municipal guard’s corruption was matched only by their incompetence “He’s been able to hide from them  _ and  _ from the Prole Office.” 

A frown crept across the Major’s face. “The Prole Office likes to keep an eye on known dissidents,” he said. “I find that it’s easier to do that if we observe and learn instead of arresting one man and driving his friends further underground. Etienne Garnier has nine close associates who help him to hide from the authorities, and I have already sent observation teams to watch his friends.”

Ingrained discipline kept Dmitri’s face still and disciplined, but Colonel Rostov smirked at Vordurand, and the younger man’s eyes narrowed with barely controlled rage. “Don’t underestimate the old guard, Commodore,” Rostov told him. “Jonas has been doing his job since you were a baby Vorling.” 

“There’s no need to be rude, Vanya,” Major Neumann said mildly. “We’re all under a great deal of stress. This is a difficult case, and we have been one step behind our opponent the entire time.” He gave Dmitri a small, fleeting smile, and Dmitri tried to hide his pride. “Thanks to Lieutenant Vorremis, we now have our first major lead. If we find Garnier, we may be able to learn who told Count Alexander that Count Miklos was assassinated by ImpSec. We may even be able to find Daniel Lewis.”

Dmitri’s blood ran cold as he imagined what could have happened. Count Alexander Vorjuric on the floor of the Council of Counts, denouncing Imperial Security for the death of his father. The Regent’s enemies would have gladly embraced that story, and even the Regent’s allies would wonder if they were returning to the old days. The threat of impeachment would have hung over the Regent’s government like an executioner’s sword, paralyzing the state.

“Cetagandans,” Vordurand said. “They’ve always wanted to destroy Regent Vorkosigan. We stopped a dozen of their assassination attempts, so they’ve turned to more indirect means.” He rose to his feet. “I dismissed Cetagandan involvement earlier, but now it’s clear that someone is trying to frame ImpSec. To accuse the Regent. I claim this investigation for Counterintelligence, Major Neumann.” Vordurand visibly hesitated. “And I...apologize for my remarks earlier.” 

The Major said, “I accept your apology. And I accept your authority in this matter, Commodore, though I would like you to find a use for Lieutenant Vorremis and Agent Irina.” To Dmitri, this seemed like a fairly transparent power grab, but Major Neumann didn’t usually care about credit. Colonel Rostov made no protest, though a look of amusement did cross his cheerful, ugly features. 

“Excellent,” Vordurand declared. “I’ll prepare my best agents.” He rose and left the room, his apprentice two steps behind him, and the door slammed shut. A great many remarks crossed Dmitri’s mind, but Imperial Security had long since taught him to keep those thoughts to himself. If Vordurand wanted to insult the Major’s work and then step in to steal credit for the Major’s results, it was for his superior to object. 

Major Neumann rubbed his eyes wearily. His suit looked like he had slept in it, and Dmitri thought that he probably hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest since Miklos Vorjuric’s death. Irina was unconscious in the office right now, sleeping like the dead. Once they were done here, Dmitri was going to need at least twelve hours before he was good for anything. 

Everything would be better if it was the Cetagandans. Dmitri had watched all of the broadcasts with Mom, rejoicing as the Regent returned victorious from war. Barrayar had been united for a brief shining moment, Vor and prole standing together in defense of the Imperium. It was the kind of war Dad would have been happy to die in, the war he had deserved.

Sometimes Dmitri missed that child. He had entered the Imperial Service with joy, eager to serve his Regent, his Emperor, and his country. When he knelt before Regent Vorkosigan and placed his hands between the Regent’s, when he swore to give his life in service of Regent and Emperor, he had been so certain. The crimes of Escobar were in the past, and Vorkosigan would bring them into a bright future free from dishonor and shame. 

It was a beautiful story, and part of him would always long for that childish faith, the story of a Great Man who could fix all that was wrong with Barrayar. But it was a lie. Even if the Cetagandans had killed Count Miklos Vorjuric, it was Vorjuric’s Voice that had ordered the murder of his own subjects. The Regent had not stopped him. Could not stop him.

“So,” Colonel Rostov said, breaking into Dmitri’s thoughts. “You think this really is the Cetagandans? Or is Vordurand just stepping in to take credit when he was happy to leave you with the blame before?” 

Major Neumann sighed. “You should be more generous, Vanya. The Commodore is new to his position, and he wants to show his patron that he’s worthy. We can both sympathize with that.”

Rostov said, “You’ve gone soft, Jonas. In the old days you would have killed for Captain Negri’s approval, and now you’re letting some arrogant Vorling steal your case.” The old man didn’t respond, and Rostov chuckled. “The kinder, gentler ImpSec. You really have changed.” 

“What was it like?” The words emerged before Dmitri could stop them. Irina and the Major had given him bits and pieces over the years, stories and jokes about the old days, but he’d never dared to simply ask. “Before Director Illyan took over, before the Regency.”

Rostov leaned back in his chair. His cheerful features were unusually thoughtful, and he took a long time to answer. “Captain Negri liked orphans,” he finally told Dmitri. “Children who didn’t have any family loyalties. He took us in, he trained us, and he...tested us.” Major Neumann was silent and perfectly still, gazing off into space. “Jonas and I passed our tests.” 

Dmitri said nothing. After a moment, Rostov continued. “We were nothing, and he made us powerful. Made us respected. Made us  _ feared _ .” The colonel stared at Dmitri, calm and pitiless, and he tried not to shrink back from Rostov’s gaze. “We were Captain Negri’s Eyes, and back then we  _ were  _ the state. When I caught a Count plotting against the Emperor, I ordered him to cut his own throat if he wanted his family to see another dawn.” 

There was amused delight in Rostov’s voice. “They’re bold under Director Illyan, but when Captain Negri was in charge the High Vor were like frightened rabbits. They used to flinch whenever they saw the Horus eyes on your collar. All the high and mighty, the grand old families of the Imperium, cringing before the trash of the  _ caravansarai _ .” 

The old days. Dmitri tried to imagine the Major as a younger man, hungry to prove himself to his master, free from any doubts or hesitation. It was disturbingly easy. Irina liked to joke about being nothing more than a hired enforcer, and Dmitri had realized long ago that she wasn’t really joking. 

The Major said, “Yes.” There was no joy in his voice, only grief and exhaustion. “I wanted it as much as you did, Vanya. It took me a long time to start having doubts. And even when I did, I wasn’t willing to share them with our Captain.” 

“That would have been the last thing you ever did,” Rostov told the Major, sharp and certain. “Captain Negri didn’t have any tolerance for doubts, especially from one of his orphans. We owed him everything, and he was always ready to remind us that he could take it all away.”

“He was everything to me,” the Major said. “Teacher and master and god. The Captain shaped me like a potter shapes clay, and I built my life around pleasing him.” He drew his jacket more closely around his shoulders, shivering in the cold. “Director Illyan is not Captain Negri, but I think that is a good thing. One Captain was enough for my lifetime.”

“Amen.” Rostov leaned forward in his chair, bright, curious eyes turning back to Dmitri. “I admit that I doubted your choice of apprentices, Jonas. I couldn’t see why you would want a naive little Vorling, but he seems to have worked out.”

Dmitri just nodded his acceptance of the compliment, backhanded though it was. He would have been worried if Colonel Rostov had wholeheartedly approved of him.

Rostov drummed his fingers on the table, then said casually, “By the way, Jonas, I wanted to ask how Irina is doing. I haven’t really had a chance to talk with her.” 

“I’m not helping you steal Irina,” Major Neumann replied. “You have the largest staff in ImpSec, Vanya, and yet you keep trying to rob me. Go back to your own people and stop trying to take mine away.” 

“Never,” Rostov said, grinning. “I still think you should come to work for me. Let the Counts handle the proles, while we deal with the  _ real  _ threats.” 

“I’ll think about it,” the Major said politely. Rostov pushed back his chair, stretched, and made his way to the exit. His apprentice held the door open for him, glanced apologetically back at Major Neumann, and then slammed the door shut with a hollow  _ boom _ . They sat for a moment in awkward silence. The room was very cold, and his undress greens did very little to protect him from the chill. 

It was good to have answers, even if they were not pleasant. Dmitri had been too cowardly to ask before, though it was obvious that the Major welcomed his questions. Even as Major Neumann and Irina tried to recruit him, they weren’t hiding the worst parts of their past. It was an oddly honorable approach for people who kept insisting that they had no sense of honor. 

“Dmitri.” The Major had a strange expression on his face, half-solemn and half-fearful. “Irina and I have done our best to protect you, to keep you from taking part in the uglier aspects of our job. We wanted you to understand who we are and what we’ve done before asking you to follow in our footsteps.” He took a deep breath. “The time for that protection is drawing to a close. If you join us fully, if you commit to becoming my successor, you will surrender your personal honor. You will take innocent life, and you will tell yourself that you commit evil actions in the service of a greater good.” 

He froze, unable to look away from the Major. Unable to speak. “I won’t ask you for an answer now. But the time will come, very soon, when you will have to decide whether you’re ready to take the next step.” 

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

“And that’s how I finally got him.”

Irina patted her needle rifle affectionately, like a beloved dog. Sarah Peterson looked at her with something with awe, and Dmitri felt more than a little worried. Though he did care for Irina, she was not the best example for a young agent. 

At least Sergeant Hansler had been a soldier of Political Education, a legitimate military target. Dmitri was reluctant to ask Irina how many innocent lives she had taken. Not because he thought she wouldn’t tell him, but because he knew that she would.

“They talk about you,” Sarah said. The Counterintelligence agent had pale hair and a round, cheerful face, and she smiled somewhat nervously at Irina. “Not, uh, bad things. They say that you were the first female assassin to work for ImpSec. They say that you killed Colonel Vornelson with a butter knife during the Pretendership.”

Irina shook her head, smiling. “No one kills a man with a  _ butter knife _ ,” she told the girl. “I used a steak knife. Vornelson was an old-school Vor, so he didn’t believe in looking at his servants. I walked up right behind him while he was reading intelligence reports and stabbed him to death. He bled all over the papers, but Forensics was able to read them.” 

“And I’m hardly the first female assassin in the Emperor’s Service,” Irina said enthusiastically. “Abigail Vormeadows poisoned eight  _ ghem _ -lords at a feast during the Invasion, and Olga Borodin was one of Emperor Dorca’s finest killers. When Lord Fyodor Vorbarra opposed Dorca’s claim to the throne, she shot him and made it look like a hunting accident.”

Dmitri coughed. “Um, don’t tell anyone about that last part,” Irina said. At least she had the decency to look a little guilty. “It’s not exactly in the approved histories.” 

“I always knew they were wrong,” Sarah declared. Her eyes were shining. “They said that women couldn’t handle field work, but we’ve always been fighting for the Emperor. They just leave us out of the stories.” 

When he’d first joined Imperial Security, he hadn’t understood how Irina could carry a gun. She was a woman, which meant that she was naturally more kind-hearted than a man. The weight of killing would fall more heavily upon her sensitive soul. It had taken less than a week for him to abandon that belief entirely, and Dmitri now took a certain pride in accepting that Agent Sarah Peterson could one day be a soldier of the Emperor in fact if not in name.

“...so then I threw him out of the aircar,” Irina said. Dmitri immediately snapped out of his thoughts. “It was kind of a shame, really. Corporal Gibson treated me decently, better than most of the others. I was hoping that Sergeant Varga was the spy, I’d always wanted to kill him, but he was completely loyal. He died during the Pretendership, and we all had to attend his funeral and pretend to be sad.” 

Dmitri said, “Irina.” She paused and turned to frown at him, and he gestured to Sarah Peterson, who was pale as a ghost. 

Irina said quickly, “But you don’t have to worry about that. ImpSec doesn’t require new agents to prove their loyalty by killing traitors.” She paused. “Anymore.”

Hopefully Sarah Peterson could grow to become a soldier like Irina without becoming a soldier  _ like Irina _ . If she was feeling unappreciated in Counterintelligence, they might be able to steal her for the Prole Office. It would be nice to be the wise old veteran instead of the junior agent for once, and Dmitri thought that he could be a good mentor. 

If he made the commitment. His comrades had been more than patient, but ultimately there was no room for an honorable man in Imperial Security. There was no requirement to be  _ cruel _ ; Dmitri could see that the Major did his best to avoid doing harm when it was not necessary. But sometimes it would be necessary, and Dmitri did not know if he could honestly promise to put Barrayar’s needs over his own personal honor. 

There were endless stories about this choice in the history of the Vor. Oliver Vorclarence had given his name’s word to keep his best friend’s secret, only to discover that his friend was involved in a conspiracy against the Emperor. Hannah Vormeyer had married a man who plotted to betray their Count to the Cetagandans. The usual solution involved honorable suicide, which was generally felt to remove dishonor from the family name. Dmitri was proud of his people and their history, but there was no denying that the Vor were bad at finding solutions that didn’t involve gruesome death. 

The timer  _ dinged _ , and Dmitri rose to his feet with a sigh. Their break was over, and now they would spend the next eight hours staring at a small, shabby two-story office building parked at the edge of the slums. Then they would go to sleep and start the whole process all over again. 

He grabbed a box of field rations from the kitchen counter as he walked past. They held all the nutrients needed for survival, but they would never be mistaken for real food. He passed one to Irina, who took it with a grimace, and another to Sarah, who nodded in gratitude. Dmitri bit into his twelfth ration bar, marking four days that they had been here. Eating nothing but ration bars. 

Three comconsoles waited at the dining room table, and Dmitri could hear retreating footsteps as the second observation team made their way upstairs to get some sleep. He took his seat, stared at the screen, and tried to focus on noticing any important details. The time was four forty-five, and Samuel Roberts would soon return to his home, where another observation team would be keeping watch. They would stay here to observe an empty office building. 

Minutes crept by, and the street in front of the office remained empty. Heavy curtains hung across the office windows, and Samuel Roberts regularly swept his workspace for bugs, so they weren’t able to observe him directly. 

Dmitri had read Roberts’s newspaper while they were observing him, and he’d liked it. The  _ Vorbarr Sultana Post  _ wasn’t just a scandal rag that reported the private lives of the High Vor; Roberts did essential work exposing the corruption of the Ministries. It was more than a little surprising that he was still alive. 

He’d read Etienne Garnier’s newspaper, too. Roberts was careful to criticize the Emperor’s Ministers but not the Emperor, staying on the right side of the law. Garnier was an open republican, a firm believer in the overthrow of the Emperor, the Counts, and the entire Vor system. It was treasonous, of course, but parts of his newspaper were oddly compelling. 

A truck pulled up in front of the building, and Dmitri watched two men get out, just as they had for the last four days at this time. Roberts came out, waved to them, and propped the door open. The men opened the back of the truck, dropped a ramp, and rolled a cart down. A few minutes later, the cart returned, loaded with newspapers. Roberts was helping to push the cart up the ramp, just as he had last time. Dmitri yawned.

The man shook hands with Roberts, just as he had before, and...wait. There was only one man. Dmitri watched intently as the man climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away. Then he rewound the camera and watched again. Two men brought a cart down the ramp. One man emerged from the office with Samuel Roberts. 

Dmitri rewound the camera and zoomed in. He didn’t have a good angle on the second man’s face, and his hair was brown. Etienne Garnier’s hair was black. Hair could be dyed. “Irina,” he said. 

“Dmitri,” Irina said, in almost the same instant. Both of them looked at each other, and Irina smiled hungrily. 

“Um,” Sarah said politely, finally looking up from her comconsole. “I think something is wrong. Two men came in, but only one man came out.”

Four minutes later, Dmitri was walking briskly towards the front entrance, stunner in hand. Evening was setting in, and three men moved quietly through the gathering darkness around him, positioning themselves to cut every angle of retreat. Sarah Peterson waited inside, watching the cameras, while Irina lurked just inside the house with a needle rife. 

Nothing in Etienne Garnier’s background suggested that he was a violent man, but Dmitri still found himself glancing at shadows and checking the nerve disruptor at his hip. He clutched his stunner tightly as he approached the darkened office, his steps slowing as he arrived at the door. Only a few paces separated him from the entrance, and he stared through the darkened window, searching for signs of life. 

It was the work of a moment to open the cheap lock, and Dmitri crept inside. Reinforcements were on the way, but he refused to wait. Garnier could slip away if they gave him time; they had to move  _ now _ , before he noticed them. One of the Counterintelligence agents entered silently behind him, a comforting presence at his side. There were voices coming from a back room, and he tiptoed around the desk, careful not to brush against the stack of newspapers. 

“...apprentice came by just a few days ago, Etienne. It wasn’t about you- or at least I don’t think it was- but you aren’t safe here.” 

“I have the story, Samuel. The story I’ve been searching for all my life. I can finally show everyone the truth about ImpSec. In just a few days...” 

Dmitri stepped forward, raised his hand, and knocked once. The voices stopped instantly, though he heard feet shuffling nervously away from the door. “Mister Roberts,” he said politely. “Mister Roberts, sir, it’s Lieutenant Vorremis. The Major would like to speak to your friend.” 

Etienne Garnier threw the door open and glared down at Dmitri. He was a tall, burly man with a crooked nose, and Dmitri thought he looked more like a boxer than a political dissident. The Counterintelligence agent beside him raised his stunner, and Samuel Roberts stepped forward hastily, hands raised above his head. “We’ll come peacefully,” he said, throwing a nervous glance back at Garnier. “There’s no need for violence.” 

Garnier snorted. “You can’t stop this, cockroach.” Roberts shook his head urgently, but the bigger man ignored him. “The truth will get out, no matter what you do to us.” 

Roberts winced, and Dmitri holstered his stunner and held up his hands. “We’d like to learn about the truth, sir,” he told Garnier. “We’re still trying to figure out what is going on, and we would appreciate your help.” 

The publisher snorted with contempt. “I’m not one of your informants,” he said. “I always knew how this was going to end, but I won’t flip to save my own life. Besides, you wouldn’t honor the promise even if I did.” 

“Lieutenant,” Sarah Peterson said, speaking through the comm in his ear. “We’re bringing an armored groundcar around for the prisoners. The Commodore wants them back at Headquarters immediately.” 

That was an excellent idea. The Major could interrogate Garnier, and he could get Roberts settled in one of the nicer cells, the ones they reserved for prisoners with family connections. He’d only tried to help a friend, and it wasn’t fair to punish him for any of this.

Dmitri said, “If you’ll come with us, Mister Garnier. Mister Roberts.” Garnier walked briskly forward, ignoring the Counterintelligence agent’s stunner, while Roberts scuttled behind him, shooting a nervous glance back at Dmitri. He did his best to smile reassuringly. 

The night outside was dark and quiet. A single lightflyer passed far overhead, a distant light gleaming among the stars. One of the agents slapped cuffs on Roberts, who tried to shrink into the pavement, and then Garnier, who spat at his feet. The agent raised a hand, caught Dmitri’s eye, and thought better of it. 

Garnier began to hum the  _ Internationale _ . The sound carried eerily well in the quiet of the street, though there was no one to hear except Imperial Security. Roberts would probably be released in time; he had committed no serious crimes, and Dmitri’s boss clearly didn’t want him in prison. Garnier was an open enemy of the Emperor Dmitri had sworn to serve, a man that he should be glad to throw into a cell. 

A man with the courage to denounce Counts like Vorjuric. A man who would never have hidden Prince Serg’s crimes. Even now, confronted with the terror of Imperial Security, Garnier hummed a forbidden, seditious song, a cry of defiance against the powerful. Dmitri found himself remembering the words. 

_ No rights without duties, she says. Equally, no duties without rights.  _

He would ask Major Neumann to release Garnier when they were finished. The Major always said that he wanted Dmitri to do better, and this was a small thing. Dmitri could not fix the world, but perhaps he could let one man go.

Headlights flared in the distance, and Dmitri saw the outline of an armored van. The great grey monster raced out of the night, engine roaring, and Sarah Peterson’s voice spoke in his ear. “Transport is here.” 

The van rumbled down the street towards them, and Dmitri glanced around, suddenly nervous. In the dim glow of the streetlights, he could see only a few darkened houses and a shabby, crumbling apartment building that looked like it might fall over at any moment. The front door of the apartments had fallen halfway off its hinges, and it creaked back and forth in the wind. He shivered, drawing his jacket closer around him, and drew his stunner. 

“Bring the prisoners to the van,” Dmitri ordered, and the Counterintelligence men took their arms. They handled the two men quickly and professionally, marching them towards the waiting transport. The wind rose, howling around them, and Dmitri fell into step behind them. 

“Lieutenant Vorremis, I see movement in the apartment building windows.” Sarah Peterson’s voice was high and nervous. “I think it’s just the wind moving the curtains, but I’m adjusting the cameras for a closer…” 

There was a ringing sound in his ears, and his face felt strangely wet. Dmitri tried to move forward, then realized that he was lying on the street. Smoke drifted across his vision, blinding him for a moment, and then blue fire lanced through the haze. He fell on his face, hearing a man shouting, no, screaming. 

Dmitri crawled forward, choking and coughing on the smoke, listening as the high-pitched whine of a disruptor rose above the screams. Brilliant light streaked above him once, twice, and the screams fell silent. The van lay ahead of him, shattered and burning, and he crawled behind the wreckage, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest. 

There was a dead man lying on the other side of the van, and a stunner lay on the ground beside his outstretched hand. Dmitri snatched it up gratefully, ignoring the blood that stained the grip. An agent stumbled past him, coughing and choking, and Dmitri watched as he made his way out of the smoke. The agent sucked in a deep breath, then another, and he was beginning to reach for the holstered needler at his side when a bolt of blue fire struck him in the chest.

Dmitri went still. He fell to the ground on his back, trying not to move a muscle, and heard the roar of the burning van behind him. Through half-closed eyes, he could see that the house where Sarah and Irina had been hiding was also consumed by flames. Sirens howled in the distance, sounding impossibly far away. And then Dmitri heard the faint sound of a boot grinding against broken glass. 

Daniel Lewis walked through the smoke, nerve disruptor at the ready. A fallen man groaned in agony, and he took careful aim and fired once, twice into the agent’s chest. Lewis’s scarred face wore a mournful expression, as though he regretted what he was doing, but his hands did not waver. Dmitri’s own fingers were gripping the stunner tightly, and he forced himself to relax, to lie as limp as a true corpse. 

A body lay facedown thirty paces from Dmitri, and Lewis fired two more shots into the form, watching it twitch and jump. He took a moment to turn it over, frowning at the face he saw. His steps were bringing him closer to the back of the burning van, to Dmitri, and he was closer now. Almost close enough for Dmitri to pull the trigger. 

One step, two steps, three steps...and the wind shifted suddenly, blowing smoke into Dmitri’s eyes, into his mouth. He gasped and retched, unable to see or breathe, surrounded by suffocating darkness. 

Then the wind shifted again, and he sucked in a deep breath of cold, clean air. The gale was pushing the smoke away from him, towards the front of the van, and he rose to his hands and feet, searching for Daniel Lewis.

The traitorous armsman was standing less than ten feet away, nerve disruptor already swiveling to point at Dmitri. His own stunner was rising, but slowly, so slowly, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would not be fast enough. Dmitri stared down the barrel of the gun and waited for the flash of blue fire that would signal the end. 

Dmitri heard a faint  _ hiss _ , and Lewis staggered back, sending a line of killing light just above Dmitri’s head. He pulled the trigger, and Lewis crumpled. 

He stood there for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, unable to believe that he was still alive. Lewis lay on the ground, with the disruptor fallen from his hand, and Dmitri walked over to kick it away, keeping his stunner trained on the fallen armsman. Sirens were howling all around him, impossibly loud, but he imagined that he could hear a voice. “Dmitri! Dmitri!” 

Irina staggered out of the night, needle rifle in her hands. Her face was stained by ash and blood, but she wore a fierce, half-mad smile. “You’re alive, Vorling!” He nodded dumbly, lowering the stunner, and she laughed. 

“I’m alive.” The body at his feet twitched, and Dmitri knelt to examine Daniel Lewis. There was blood on the back of his head where his skull had struck the ground, but his pulse was strong and steady. “I’m alive...and so is he.” 


	10. Chapter 10

“You got the drop on me.” Irina sounded more impressed than angry. “No one’s done that in a pretty long time, Lewis.” The armsman shifted almost imperceptibly in the chair, his features blank and unreadable. “Under different circumstances, I’d be trying to recruit you.” 

An ugly purple bruise covered the right side of Irina’s face, and Dmitri could feel sharp pain in his ribs with each breath. If he had been standing just a few feet closer to the van… 

Instead of imagining what might have been, Dmitri looked down at the folder in front of him.  _ Daniel Dorca Lewis.  _ He’d read it again and again, yet it made no more sense on the hundredth time than it had on the first. Raised as an orphan in Vorjuric’s District, joined the Imperial Service at eighteen. Lewis’s record was...perfect. Spotless. Every one of his commanders had recommended him for promotion. If he hadn’t left the Service to become an armsman, he would have earned an officer’s commission.

There was a picture towards the back of the file, a photo of Daniel Lewis standing stiffly at attention while Count Miklos Vorjuric pinned a medal on his chest. The  _ Star of Honor _ , a medal reserved for an armsman who had suffered a wound in the defense of his Count. During Vordarian’s Pretendership, when traitors in Imperial Security had tried to kill Miklos Vorjuric, Daniel Lewis had fought and nearly died in his Count’s service. 

And then he had killed him. 

Picking up the pencil, he scribbled  _ People’s Defense League?  _ on a corner of the record. No. A League supporter would have proclaimed his triumph to the four corners of the Earth. And Etienne Garnier was a fierce believer in the Revolution, though his version involved fewer explosions. 

Had involved. Garnier would never write another article denouncing the Escobar War, never mock a Count’s blatant corruption, never sing the  _ Internationale  _ in front of Imperial Security. He had never been a soldier, but he had shown a courage that any soldier could envy. 

Irina said, “Poison capsule in the back tooth. That’s pretty common for the League, but we’ve used it, too.” She leaned in towards Lewis, wearing a warm smile on her bruised, bandaged features. “My boss has a bomb implanted in his skull. Captain Negri really didn’t like the idea of anyone getting their hands on his secrets.” 

Lewis said nothing. He didn’t struggle against the cuffs that held him to the chair, or threaten Irina, or beg for mercy. There was no fear on his features, only a hint of weariness. 

“So here’s the deal,” Irina told him. “I hate to admit it, but you’ve accomplished your mission. You killed Vorjuric. You killed Garnier, you killed Roberts, and you killed four ImpSec agents.” For a moment Dmitri saw something like sadness flicker across Irina’s face. “I liked Sarah Peterson. She was a nice girl, and you killed her. But that’s not the point.” 

She had wanted so badly to be a soldier like Irina. Dmitri would tell her parents that she had died bravely in the line of duty. He would tell her parents that her death had been quick and painless. Only half of that would be a lie. 

“We need to know who you work for,” Irina said. “The details can wait. Right now, you can just say “People’s Defense League”. Or “Cetagandans”. That drew a reaction, a flinch so small that Dmitri almost missed it. “Not the Cetagandans? You don’t want us to tell everyone that you were a traitor working for the Invaders?”. This time he could see Lewis shrink away. 

Irina said, “Here’s the deal. You tell us why you killed Vorjuric.” She reached into the pocket of her trousers, pulled out a small needler, and laid it on the table. “Then I shoot you in the head. Otherwise…,” she shrugged. “We’ll have to turn you over to the Council of Counts. With modern medicine, it could take you  _ weeks  _ to die.”

Dmitri could see Lewis trembling in the chair. The assassin knew the fate that awaited an armsman who murdered his Count. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and said, “No.” 

He did not speak again.

_ Cetagandans? _ They were patient and cunning enough for a plot like this, but Lewis faced the worst death imaginable. Why would he lie to protect foreign paymasters? Dmitri couldn’t imagine any Barrayaran having that kind of loyalty towards the Invaders. Could they have a hostage, a loved one that they threatened to force him to serve as their agent? There was nothing like that in the file, but it was possible. 

They needed the Major. Dmitri was no great detective, and while Irina was a veteran interrogator, Daniel Lewis wasn’t talking. The Major could find the truth that Dmitri was missing. The Major could put the pieces together. 

The Major wasn’t here. Dmitri had no evidence, no confession, and no real theory. Daniel Lewis wasn’t talking, and Etienne Garnier was dead. He couldn’t tell Dmitri anything.

No, that was wrong. Garnier couldn’t tell Dmitri anything  _ now _ . But he’d spoken to Dmitri before his death, and Dmitri remembered his words. 

“I can finally show everyone the truth about ImpSec.” What truth had Garnier found? Whatever it was, it had been important. Important enough for Lewis to risk his own life to silence him forever. 

None of it made sense. If all of this had been a plot by Imperial Security, who had sent the note to Count Alexander Vorjuric, telling him that “Etienne Garnier knows the truth”? Why had Lewis killed Garnier? How had he known where Garnier would be hiding? Every question led to another, and Dmitri didn’t have any answers. 

Irina pulled out a piece of paper and laid it in front of Lewis. “Your orphanage director is a sweet old lady,” she told him conversationally. “When Madam Liebknecht heard that her dear little Daniel killed a Count, she cried and cried.” She examined him thoughtfully. “I wonder how she’ll feel when she learns that her Daniel is a traitor to the Emperor.”

For a moment, Daniel Lewis stared down at the table, unable to meet Irina’s gaze. When he looked up, his face was expressionless once more. Irina frowned, and Dmitri knew that she was searching for another vulnerability, another way to break him. 

Madam Liebknecht had been their best guess. A figure from his childhood, someone whose approval he would still care about. There was no one else in the folder, no family or friends or lovers. Every one of Count Vorjuric’s armsmen testified that Lewis had been a loner, a man focused entirely on his duty. An intensely private man, who never spoke of his own life or feelings. 

There was only one exception. Reaching into the folder, Dmitri pulled out a single sheet of paper.  _ I wish to give my life to the service of Count Miklos Vorjuric, just as he has given his own life to the service of our Emperor and our Imperium.  _

One sentence. Daniel Lewis had never been a man of many words, and he might go to his grave without telling them any more. So Dmitri would look at his actions instead. There was a pattern- there  _ had  _ to be a pattern- even if Dmitri hadn’t seen it yet. 

Taking up his pencil, he began to write again.  _ Lewis nearly dies for Vorjuric _ . The act of a loyal armsman.  _ Lewis kills Vorjuric _ . The act of an oathbreaker who cared nothing for an armsman’s sacred vows.  _ Lewis returns to murder Garnier _ . The act of...a lunatic? A madman who would throw away his own life. For what? 

Not the Revolution. A terrorist would be proud of what he had done. Lewis was loyal enough to face torture and death without flinching, but he would have no reason to keep his silence now. Not his Count; he had killed Miklos Vorjuric, setting aside an armsman’s sacred oath for a higher purpose. If he was not loyal to the Revolution or his oathsworn Count, why was he prepared to die?

Only a single answer came to Dmitri. If he was right- if he was not a fool and a failure, unworthy of the Major’s trust- then they might finally be able to find the truth. Rising to his feet, he closed the folder and stepped in front of Irina. 

Without looking away, Dmitri said, “Irina. Call the Major. Tell him that we need secure transport as soon as possible.” Irina nodded immediately, hiding her surprise. “Tell him that we need an immediate audience with Lord Regent Vorkosigan.”

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

The High Vor stared down at Dmitri. 

Great landowners and captains of industry, generals and admirals, Counts and Countesses. These men and women had ruled the lives of millions, and now they were nothing more than paintings on a wall. The office was bright and warm, but Dmitri could still feel himself shiver. 

“I haven’t added as many since Illyan took over,” Colonel Rostov told him. “Most of these portraits are from Captain Negri’s day, when we had a free hand with enemies of the state. And of course these aren’t all of them; I could have ten times as many if I was allowed to include “aircar accidents” and “heart attacks”.” 

He sighed regretfully, turning away from the portrait of an elderly Count with an enormous white beard. “Most of them were fairly incompetent schemers, of course, but a few were quite impressive. Count Vorgrimaud had me convinced that he was a loyal idiot for the better part of a decade. If he hadn’t gotten careless in the end, he might have died in bed instead of begging for water in the Great Square.” 

It was a vicious tradition. Dmitri had approved of it, once, or at least assumed that there must be a good reason behind the practice. But when the Major killed people, he did it quickly, without needless suffering or public humiliation. Anything else was cruelty hiding behind custom, as if centuries of doing the wrong thing somehow made it right. 

“Stop taunting him, Vanya,” Irina told him. She was leaning against the wall, an ice pack pressed to her face, but her words were as sharp as always. “Dmitri’s got a soft heart. Doesn’t want to hurt people. I still have no idea why he decided to join ImpSec, but no one outside the Prole Office gets to bully our Vor.” 

“If you say so, Irina.” Rostov took a seat behind his desk, a huge structure made out of some kind of dark wood. There was a family crest carved into the surface, a roaring lion crouched beside a campstool. “You didn’t come here to look at my trophies, Vorling, and Irina has seen all of this before. On to business.” 

Dmitri said, “Yes, sir.” His voice sounded hollow and empty in his own ears. “Colonel, Major Neumann needs your help. Commodore Vordurand is trying to put the blame on him, and he doesn’t have much experience with this kind of politics.” He hesitated, letting Rostov see his exhaustion and fear, the barely controlled terror of a junior officer in far over his head. “I’m willing to admit that I made mistakes, sir, but it isn’t fair to blame the Major.” 

“Fair?” Rostov’s brown eyes glittered with scorn. “There is no fair in war or in ImpSec, Vorling. Vordurand understands that. Someone is going to get the blame for this disaster, and he wants to make sure it isn’t him.” He shook his head. “It was Vordurand’s operation, his decisions, and his responsibility. Illyan’s man or not, he can’t slither out of this one.” 

As if his name had summoned him, Vordurand stormed through the door. His medals gleamed in the bright overhead light like protective charms that could ward off disaster, and the fury on his face made Dmitri very glad that Irina was standing between them. One hand slipped into her pocket, and Vordurand halted before he drew too close, fists clenched at his sides. Once Dmitri might have been frightened of him, but he could still see Daniel Lewis’s scarred, mournful features.

“Commodore,” Dmitri said respectfully. “Thank you for being here, sir.” He pulled out one of the chairs before Rostov’s desk, an old-fashioned antique with a bear carved into the back. “Will you take a seat?”

“I will see you court-martialed, dishonorably discharged, and locked in Kemerovo Prison.” Vordurand smiled at the thought, a disturbingly happy expression. “You disappeared from the scene of my operation with Daniel Lewis, then reported in hours later to inform me that both Garnier and Lewis were dead. Your incompetence has cost us everything.” 

Dmitri opened his mouth to explain his actions, then closed it. Commodore Vordurand was obviously uninterested in his justifications. Instead, he only said, “Your people died bravely, sir. I am sorry for their loss.”

Vordurand took another step forward, heedless of Irina, and Dmitri flinched back. Rostov was watching the whole scene with obvious amusement, clearly uninterested in intervening, and Dmitri was just beginning to consider the legal case for stunning a senior officer when a voice said, “Please.” 

The Major walked into the room. Dmitri snapped to attention, like a soldier on parade, and the Major smiled faintly. Irina drew out a chair for him, and the old man took a seat, looking up at the enraged Commodore. “There is plenty of blame to go around,” he told Vordurand. “I can say that much of it belongs to me. I was blinded by my own assumptions, and I failed to see the truth.” 

Taking a deep breath, Vordurand lowered himself into his own chair. “Is that why you’ve been with Director Illyan?,” he asked. “You were taking responsibility for the failure of the operation?” 

“In a way,” the Major said softly, almost gently. He was a small man dressed in a wrinkled black suit, but in that moment Dmitri could see why Captain Negri had chosen him. “Yes, Commodore, you could say that.” 

Rostov looked at him suspiciously. “Vordurand took the operation,” he said. “He would have gotten the credit, so he gets the blame. Irina and your pet Vorling didn’t do anything wrong.”

The door behind Dmitri swung open, and two Security men in undress greens entered, stunners at the ready. Dmitri was watching Rostov’s face, but he didn’t see anything except curiosity and a hint of annoyance. Even when the stunners swung to aim at him, the Colonel’s expression was only mildly upset.

Rostov said, “Jonas. What game is this?” He waved casually at the guards. “Are we under attack by prole terrorists? No? Then send these gentlemen back to their posts so we can have a private conversation.” His lips turned up in a small smile. “Unless you’ve brought them to arrest Vordurand for his incompetence.” 

Vordurand’s dark eyes flared with rage, but the Major lifted a hand. “No, Vanya,” he replied. Four more Security men appeared at the doorway, with a shackled and hooded prisoner between them. “The guards aren’t for our colleague.” 

A guard pulled the hood off, and Daniel Lewis stood before them. He was dressed in a grey prisoner’s uniform, with his hands shackled behind his back, and his face wore a look of absolute despair. Rostov’s smile turned into a triumphant grin, and he clapped the Major on the back.

“So you’ve caught him after all, Jonas! Well, we have our prisoner, and now it’s just a matter of making him talk. A difficult task with a man like Lewis, but I have…” 

Lewis said, “It was the Lord Regent’s command. I obeyed the Emperor’s Voice.” There were tears running down his cheeks, and his voice broke. “I was always loyal to the Emperor. Always.” 

Rostov’s grin faded, and he frowned in confusion. “That makes no sense. If you were loyal to the Emperor, then why…”

“Vanya,” the Major said. “Vanya, it’s too late. We took Daniel Lewis to the Imperial Residence last night, and Lord Regent Vorkosigan requested and required that he tell us  _ everything _ .” Daniel Lewis was sobbing now, his whole body shaking as he wept. “The Lord Regent was very surprised to find that he had ordered Count Miklos Vorjuric’s execution.” 

Rostov said, “Well.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, considering, then nodded. “How much of it have you put together, Jonas?” 

“Most of it, I think,” the Major told him. “I thought of you from the start, but I dismissed the idea. After all, if ImpSec had killed Vorjuric, you would have had a scapegoat ready. This isn’t your first time.” Without moving from his seat, Rostov gave Major Neumann a mocking bow. “I failed to consider the possibility that you  _ wanted  _ to be caught.” 

In time, Etienne Garnier would have come forward with the truth: Daniel Lewis was, and always had been, an agent of Imperial Security. He had been planted as a safeguard against the Count’s treachery, a hidden assassin ready to strike Miklos Vorjuric down at the first sign of treachery. When the Count publicly denounced the Regent, he had received an Imperial decree to kill Vorjuric, and he had faithfully executed that command. The Counts would have heard Garnier’s story, and they would have believed it was true.

They would not have been wrong. Every part of the story was true, except for one small detail; the order to kill Miklos Vorjuric had not come from Aral Vorkosigan. 

Major Neumann said, “It was easy for you, of course. Daniel Lewis is a faithful soldier, not a man who questions his orders. When you arrived with a decree in the Regent’s own hand, you knew that he would obey.” He gestured sharply, and two of the guards escorted Lewis from the room, holding him upright as he wept. “ _ How  _ was easy.  _ Why _ ...why did you do it, old friend?” 

Portraits stared down all around them, silent gazes accusing their murderer. The Colonel sat behind his desk, surrounded by reminders of the lives he had taken, trapped by the evidence of his own treason. And he shrugged. “Why not?” 

Vordurand snarled with rage, and Rostov laughed, a high, mocking sound that echoed through the room. “You of all people should understand,” he said. “I spent so long as Captain Negri’s hound, sniffing out traitors and begging for scraps of approval. I worshiped him like a god, and he died, and I kept doing what he would have wanted. And then one day I woke up, and I realized that I was a slave to the Captain’s ghost.” There was scorn and contempt in his eyes, but this time it wasn’t directed at Dmitri. “So I decided to set myself free.”

“Free to work with the Cetagandans,” the Major said mildly. “Free to kill people who never harmed you.” For the first time, anger crept into his words. “Samuel Roberts was a good man, Vanya. He didn’t deserve any of this.” 

He hadn’t asked to be part of any conspiracy. He had tried to stay away from Imperial Security. But Samuel Roberts had chosen to help his old editor, and now he was lying on a slab in the morgue. Samuel had no wife to mourn him or children to carry his name, and soon enough his body would be nothing but ashes.

Rostov said, “Pathetic. Truly pathetic, Jonas. You were strong once, and now you’re weeping about some dead publisher, as if you hadn’t killed a hundred just like him. Next you’ll be talking about “loyalty” or “honor” like you were one of the Vor.” He glanced up at the wall, a smile spreading over his face. “If things had worked out, I would have been able to hang Aral Vorkosigan’s picture up there with the rest. Bringing down a Lord Regent would have been a fine conclusion to my career.” 

Vordurand was literally trembling with fury as he rose to his feet. “We will get it all out of you,” he promised. “Every last bit of treason. You will tell us  _ everything _ , and then, if the Director is merciful, he will allow you to die.”

“Quiet, child,” Rostov said. “The adults are speaking.” He leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on the Major. “You know, I’m glad that it’s you. I would have hated it if some Vor idiot caught me, or one of Illyan’s pets, but you’re one of the Captain’s orphans. You understand.” 

“I understand.” The Major stared at Rostov, eyes filled with anger and hatred and something like grief. “I could have ended up the same way.”

“But you didn’t,” Rostov said. “It’s honestly sad. You could have done so much, and you hid in the basement like a coward.  _ Vordurand  _ stole your investigation, and you didn’t say a word. The man I knew had courage and ambition, but you threw away everything the Captain taught you so that you could be part of Illyan’s “nice” ImpSec.”

The Major drew a sharp breath. Then he said, “Irina.” 

Colonel Rostov’s head snapped back, and he toppled out of the chair, falling to the floor. Dmitri stood frozen as Irina stepped forward, aimed her needler down at the body on the floor, and pulled the trigger again. “Confirmed kill,” she said, pulling a piece of paper out of her tunic. Laying the old-fashioned parchment down on the desk, she stepped away from the corpse. “Get a Forensics team, and tell them to be careful with the body. There’s a bomb inside Rostov’s brain.” 

The old -fashioned parchment lay on the desk, and Dmitri walked over and picked it up, moving in a daze.  _ In the Emperor’s Voice, I condemn Vanya Rostov to death. _

The words were written in red ink, with the Vorbarra seal beneath them.

“We could have...could have learned more if we questioned him.” For once, Vordurand didn’t sound certain. “Colonel Rostov had a great deal to tell us.”

The Major said, “Vanya had a suicide implant.” He tapped a finger against his own temple. “There was no way to take him alive, and he would have died rather than go to prison. We only managed to learn as much as we did because he loved the sound of his own voice.” 

Rising to his feet, he looked down at the body and the spreading pool of blood around it. “This matter is finished, Commodore. Would you kindly report the traitor’s confession to Director Illyan?”


	12. Chapter 12

Samuel Roberts hadn’t left much behind. 

His clothes and furniture went to a local charity. His illegal printing press went to an equally illegal newspaper operating out of an abandoned warehouse in Vordarian’s District. They were already using it to print stories about corruption in the Imperial Service, and Dmitri thought that Roberts would have been happy about that. 

Samuel Roberts had no wife, no children, no family close enough to pick up his body. His dissident friends had gone into hiding, so the only people at his funeral had been Dmitri, Irina, and the Major. Dmitri had said a prayer over his corpse before it burned, even though Samuel Roberts had been an atheist. 

Now Dmitri stood in an empty office with a  _ For Rent  _ sign stuck to the window, holding a folder and thinking about his future. 

A captain’s rank tabs were waiting for him back at Headquarters. He could put them on and rise in the Emperor’s Service. Imperial Security had power, and he could use that power for good. The Prole Office could protect men like Samuel Roberts, even as they waged war against the People’s Defense League. He could teach his own apprentices and try to change Imperial Security for the better. 

It was possible. Director Illyan’s secret police were less brutal than Captain Negri’s; perhaps in twenty or thirty years they might be better still, if people like Dmitri stayed. If they worked to fix the system from within. 

Their world was kinder than it had been. Better than it had been. But Eleanor Matthews bled out on the cobblestones, and Imperial Security did nothing. The Regent did nothing. Count Miklos Vorjuric killed his own subjects before thirty thousand witnesses, and none of his peers had named him  _ murderer _ . Long ago, when he was just a child, Mom had taken him to see  _ King Lear _ . Most of it was a blur, but there was one line that he could still remember clearly. 

_ The laws are mine, not thine. Who can arraign me for it? _

Dmitri sat down on the floor, laid out two pieces of paper, and started writing. The first letter was simple enough.  _ I request reassignment from Imperial Security.  _ He added his signature, laid it to one side, and started the second. 

_ Mom, I think I have to leave Imperial Security. I have to leave the Service. I know that I am abandoning the Vorremis tradition. I know that I am betraying my duty to the Emperor.  _

_ The last few weeks have shown me the truth, and I can’t continue. I remember how much you sacrificed to send me to the Academy, how hard you worked to ensure that I could fulfill my duty, and all I can say is that I am sorry. I would not leave if I thought there was any way I could remain. _

_ My colleagues are monsters, but they have been honest with me. They wanted me to understand what Imperial Security is, and they succeeded.  _ He could hear the Major’s voice now. “You will take innocent life, and you will tell yourself that you commit evil actions in the service of a greater good.” 

Perhaps he could have done that, if he believed in their greater good. Opening the folder, Dmitri looked down at the picture. Anna Fabron and Elise Vorradic stood frozen in time, trapped in a moment before everything had gone wrong. 

He had never found out what happened to them. Both of their files were classified, locked away from curious junior officers. Perhaps Captain Vorremis could have read them, but he would never have that chance. Maybe he could ask the Major to tell him as a parting gift, one last truth shared between them. 

Elise was remembered as a terrorist, a traitor to the Imperium who had tried to murder Good Prince Serg. Anna was just a country girl who had come to the big city and disappeared. A tragedy, of course, but she was no one important. 

Good Prince Serg’s statue stood in the Great Square. 

_ We are liars. We have hidden the crimes of the powerful and silenced those who would expose the truth. We have stolen the names and faces of their victims.  _

Nineteen names.  _ Caravansarai  _ whores, people of no importance. People of no value. All of Barrayar had worn mourning for Prince Serg, while his victims were erased from history.

If the Major had wanted him to stay, he should have lied to him. Dmitri had been eager to believe in the story of the Imperium, a glorious Emperor presiding over noble Vor and devoted proles. It was his colleagues who had broken his faith, and now they asked him to remain, to serve a system he no longer believed in. They should have known better.

A Vorremis was not simply a mercenary, to work for whoever paid him most. His family served the Emperor because they  _ believed  _ in the Emperor. They had faith in the Vor system, the great web of duty that bound the Imperium together.

_ No rights without duties, she says. Likewise, no duties without rights.  _ The Vorremises had a duty to serve the Emperor; they had the right to demand that the Emperor be worthy of that service. 

_ I am telling them my decision today, Mom. I will stay as long as I need to resolve the current case, but I should see you soon. I have no idea what I will do with my life outside the Imperial Service. _

_ Your loving son, Dmitri _

He put both letters in envelopes, labeled them carefully, and tucked them inside his jacket pocket. After a moment’s thought, he did the same with Samuel Roberts’s folder. Rising to his feet, Dmitri walked over to the door. It swung open as he approached, and Irina nodded to him. “Ready to get back to work?,” she asked mildly. “We have a great deal to do.”

“No,” Dmitri said, and nothing else. They walked in silence away from the office, past the burned-out shell of the house where Irina had nearly died. Irina was humming cheerfully to herself, and he cast a quick glance at her. She didn’t look angry or even annoyed, even though he’d told her that he was abandoning the Office. Once, long ago, she had told him that he was her choice as well as the Major’s. But she wasn’t trying to talk him out of it. 

It was a little upsetting that she wasn’t making the effort, but Dmitri told himself that it was just because Irina didn’t waste her words. If her Vorling had lost faith in the Imperium, she obviously wasn’t going to persuade him to change his mind. Anything she said about fealty to the Emperor would have been an absurd lie; Irina had never even  _ pretended  _ to care about sacred oaths to the Vorbarras. She was a mercenary, and any loyalty she had was given to the man who had lifted her out of the slums. 

The Major would try to convince him to stay. Not for sacred oaths or Vor fealty, but for the hope of a kinder, gentler Imperial Security. He had always insisted that Dmitri needed to do better than he had. 

His teacher would find another apprentice in time. There would be some bright, enthusiastic young officer eager to serve the Imperium, and the Major could guide him and shape him. He could tell him some of the truth, but not all of it, and show him why Imperial Security needed to change without breaking his faith entirely. Part of Dmitri wished he could be that officer, ignorant and happy in his service.

If they had handled him better, he could have been. They should have placed him undercover with a dangerous terrorist group, a vicious League cell that wanted to murder all the Vor. Instead, they had sent him to work undercover with peaceful dissidents, people with legitimate grievances against the system. When the Major sent him to investigate Vorjuric’s killers, he never should have allowed Dmitri near Samuel Roberts. He knew how his apprentice felt about Prince Serg, but he had sent him anyway out of a strange commitment to absolute honesty. Time and time again, they had encouraged his doubts with truth instead of smothering them with lies, and now it was too late. 

They should have known better. If they wanted to keep him, their own honesty had doomed them from the start. 

They should have known better.

They should have known better.

Dmitri doubled over laughing in the street. Irina stared down at him in confusion, but he kept laughing, feeling tears begin to run down his face. When he finally straightened up, gasping and wheezing, he had to fight back another fit of hysterical giggles. He was the greatest fool ever to live, and he was unqualified to be a traffic guard, let alone an officer in Imperial Security. Blind, blind, blind! 

“It’s okay,” Irina said soothingly, like Mom with a nervous horse. “This happens after people shoot at you. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of veterans have these problems, and..”

Dmitri said, “I know.” Irina’s eyes went wide, then her features became instantly, absolutely blank. One hand hovered near her sleeve, and Dmitri shook his head with a smile. “The answer is yes, Irina. The answer is yes.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Everything was just as he had left it. The horses were in the pasture, feasting on fresh grass, and the sun was shining down on the Vorremis mansion. 

Well, “mansion”. The Vorremises had never been High Vor. His family estate was a two-story wooden building where he roasted in the summer and froze in the winter. Dmitri could see paint peeling from the walls as he walked up the path. 

Mom was waiting for him at the front door, wearing her finest dress. It was worn and patched, and Mom looked older than before. Dmitri realized that she never told him about her problems. A good Vor woman didn’t bother her son with household matters, especially when that son was in the Service. 

“Dmitri,” she said quietly. “Welcome home.” He hadn’t told her much over the comconsole, only that he needed to talk with her. There were some conversations you could only have face to face. 

“Mom.” There were so many things that he wanted to say. “Could we talk inside?” 

She opened the door and led the way in, through a hallway that creaked and groaned underfoot. The floorboards would need to be replaced soon. The whole house needed fixing, but that was impossible on a lieutenant’s salary, or even a captain’s. They would repair what they could and make do with what remained. A Vorremis would never surrender their ancestral home and live somewhere  _ practical _ . 

Basil Vorremis stared down from the wall at Dmitri, a tall, unsmiling man carrying not a sword, but a peasant’s crude spear. He had not done what was practical. When seven armies came for the Emperor, when Counts and great Vor lords broke their oaths and abandoned their liege, a simple peasant conscript had kept his word. Stefan the Bold had named him  _ Vorremis _ before his death, and ever since then his family had served the Emperor.

The hall was full of men like Basil, brave soldiers who had lived and died for the Vorbarras. Dmitri could feel the weight of their judgement, the natural hatred that any honest man felt for an oathbreaker. He wanted to turn and run from the hall, away from the ancestors he had betrayed. 

A Vorremis did not run. He walked on past Grandfather Michael, who had been the only man to stand against the Great General’s army at Klausen Pass. Past Uncle Paul, who had died at the hands of his own commander for refusing to swear fealty to Count Vordarian. A Vorremis did not yield in what he believed to be right, even if it meant his death. His ancestors might despise him for what he chose, but they could not deny that he followed their example. 

Dad’s picture hung just outside the chapel. He was standing proudly in his undress greens, beaming from ear to ear. They had taken the picture right after he had received the posting to the  _ Prince Ivan _ , the space duty that he had wanted all his life. Mom stood at his side, one hand resting lightly on his arm, and a much smaller Dmitri stared adoringly up at his father. 

The rest of his ancestors could think what they liked. Dad would understand.

The chapel was just as Dmitri remembered it, small and dark and perfectly clean. Half of the house was covered in dust, but the dark wood of the benches gleamed in the light of the candles. Christ looked down from his Cross, his face twisted in pain and eyes filled with sorrow for the evil of the world. Dmitri knelt, closed his eyes, and prayed.

When he opened them, he saw that Mom was kneeling next to him. “Son,” she said quietly. “There’s something you need to talk about.” 

There was a single syringe in the kit he drew out of his jacket. Irina had already given him his own shot before he left. Mom said nothing as he injected the chemical into her arm, then rose to his feet. It was impossibly unlikely that anyone was listening in, but Dmitri swept the chapel for bugs once, twice, and he was beginning to start a third time when he realized that he was stalling.

His mother was still waiting patiently, like a priest waiting to take confession. He knelt facing her, wondering what he could say. Where he could begin. 

“Mom,” he said, “Major Neumann came to recruit me straight out of the Academy. I was proud to be selected, proud to serve the Emperor’s Security…”

He told her everything. Everything he was allowed to speak of, and everything that he wasn’t. By the time he had finished, his voice was sore and his knees ached from kneeling. Mom had not interrupted once. Her features were calm and unreadable, the mask of a proper Vor lady. 

Dmitri said, “I had to tell you.” He had never considered not telling her. Mom had a right to know about his decision, and if she wished to erase his name from the family Bible for his dishonor, that was her right as well. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he bowed his head, waiting for her judgment. 

Mom’s hand lifted his chin gently, and he looked at her. “Son,” she said gently. “Do you remember how your Grandfather Michael died?” He blinked in confusion, then nodded.

“He fought alone at Klausen Pass.” As a child Dmitri had imagined himself in his grandfather’s place, facing an army with sword in hand. “The rest of his battalion deserted, knowing that they couldn’t win, but the Emperor had commanded him to hold the pass, and a Vorremis obeys his Emperor.” Even when the Emperor was mad. His Grandfather Michael had been true Vor, loyal to his liege and his sworn word beyond reason. 

“My Grandfather Robert was also at Klausen Pass,” Mom said. “He was with the Great General.” She smiled at him, and he saw tears in her eyes. “Your Uncle Paul died because he wouldn’t break his oath to Vorkosigan, and your Uncle Fyodor died fighting for Vordarian. Do you think I stopped praying for my brother Fyodor because the Regent named him traitor?”

Mom rose to her feet, brushing off her dress. “We’ll have fresh fish for dinner,” she told him. “You never have proper food at work, but at least you’ll eat well while you’re home. Tomorrow you can help me with the horses, and…”

“How?,” Dmitri asked. “How can you just accept this? You raised me to be a proper Vorremis, to serve the Emperor like my ancestors before me, and I betrayed you.” He had expected shock, horror, even contempt. Not this calm acceptance. 

“I raised you to act honorably,” Mom said. “You’ve chosen to do what you think is right, and I would have been disappointed if you did anything else.” She reached down to wipe away his tears. “I swore no oaths to Vorbarra, Dmitri. A woman’s duty is to her family.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Lieutenant Dmitri Vorremis shivered uncontrollably in the cold wind and drew his coat closer around his shoulders. .

The first snowflakes were already drifting down from the sky, covering the ground in a thin coat of white. It would be a long, cold winter, and part of Dmitri already wished he was back home, with warmth and sunlight. He could help Mom around the house, and go riding in the evening, and eventually marry a nice girl and have children. It would be a good life.

But it wasn’t the life he had chosen. 

“Dmitri.” He spun around, then relaxed when he realized that it was Irina standing behind him. She wore her usual tunic and trousers, with only a light jacket to protect her from the wind. Dmitri would be freezing to death, but she didn’t even look like she was cold. “The Major already left. He wants us to meet him there.”

They walked away from Headquarters together. Inside the building, an Imperial Auditor and a team of the Director’s most trusted agents were tearing the Vor Office apart. Imperial Security would be weakened for a time, even crippled, as they struggled to determine just how badly Colonel Rostov’s treason had compromised their operations. An institution as paranoid as Imperial Security always struggled to trust, and this catastrophe would only make them more fearful. 

It was fortunate that the Director could rely on the Prole Office. One small, neglected section of Imperial Security had been determined to find the truth, rather than accepting simple explanations, and they had caught the traitor in the end. Long ago, the Major had told him that his work here would never draw Director Illyan’s attention, but the old man had been wrong. 

“How did he bring you in?,” Dmitri asked. The time to be nervous about asking questions was over. “What the Major say to you?”. 

“We talked a couple of months before the Pretendership,” Irina told him. She answered with no hesitation, as though she had expected the question. “Major Neumann told me that he had used me like a tool, with no thought for me as a person. He asked me to leave Imperial Security, to find a job somewhere else. He promised to support me financially if I got out.” 

She laughed cheerfully. “I had no idea what was happening. I’d never seen the Major upset before; he was always so cool and collected, just like Captain Negri. Seeing him like that, practically  _ crying _ , made me think I was going crazy. So I told him I wasn’t leaving his gang, and I wanted to know what he was thinking.”

“And he told you.”

“Well,” Irina said. “He tried for the better part of an hour to get me to quit. Then he told me everything.” 

A family walked past them, mother and father and four happy children, talking merrily among themselves. They barely spared a glance for Dmitri and Irina as they went by, caught up in their own little world. The mother was smiling down at her son, her face full of quiet joy. 

“You could have left,” Dmitri said quietly. “Made a different life for yourself, far away from terrorists and secret police. But you chose to stay.” 

There was nothing joyful about Irina’s smile. “The boss made the same mistake,” she told him. “I wasn’t some poor, misled little girl who needed a second chance. I wasn’t going to run away to be a schoolteacher or a happy housewife. You could have gotten out and had a nice life working with those big ugly horses, but I’m not like you, Dmitri. This is the life I want.” 

They made their way through the streets in silence. Most of the buildings around Headquarters wore government offices, grey concrete towers filled with Ministry bureaucrats. No one wanted to live in the shadow of Imperial Security. There were people in the streets, though, flocking towards the hills in the west. Dmitri saw a grey-suited man looking down from a second-story window, watching the children drag their sleds down the road. 

Irina said abruptly, “The conversation with your mom went well?” He nodded, remembering her hand wiping away his tears. “Good. We’re glad to have you back.” 

He was…”glad” was not the right word. This was not the life he had wanted. There was no honor in his work, and he would do evil in the service of a greater good. But it was his duty, and that was enough. 

The towers of the Ministries fell away behind them as Irina led the way towards another part of town. There were no mansions here, no looming skyscrapers, only the small houses and shabby apartments of people who had just enough to get by. It was not the true slums, the  _ caravansarai  _ where the poorest lived, but it was only one step removed. Dmitri reached into his pocket and brushed his fingers over the comforting presence of his stunner. 

His senior colleague led him down an alley, a narrow cobbled street surrounded on either side by enormous brick warehouses that looked like they had been built during the Occupation. Without the streetlights, the alley was illuminated only by the stars, but Dmitri put a hand on Irina’s elbow and followed her through the dark. She moved smoothly over the cobblestones, never stumbling, and Dmitri realized that she’d been here before. 

As he crept over the cobblestones, Dmitri saw a faint light coming from a door at the end of the alley. The heavy slab of wood was set in the center of a concrete wall, and an iron lock held it shut against intruders. He glanced around nervously while Irina drew out a key, fitted it to the lock, and pulled the door open. Light came flooding out into the alley, and Dmitri saw a figure standing in the doorway.

Major Neumann was wearing his usual black suit and a nervous, almost frightened expression that Dmitri had never seen before. He raised a hand, beckoning for his apprentice to enter, and Dmitri obeyed. Behind him, he heard the door swing shut with a hollow  _ thud _ . The lock clicked into place, and he looked around. 

Dmitri was standing in the center of a large, open room that looked like it was part of a warehouse. An old mattress lay in one corner, and a brazier stood against the far wall. The walls- the walls were covered in photographs, and hundreds of people stared out of them, captured in a single instant of their lives. Some of them wore military uniforms, but most wore suits or dresses or the simple clothes of the working class. 

Men and women and children, rich and poor, Vor and prole, all gathered together. There was no pattern that Dmitri could see, just hundreds of small pictures taped neatly to the walls. The old wooden floorboards creaked underfoot as he made his way over to the wall, glancing up at one of the pictures. An officer in the scarlet uniform of the Vorbarr Sultana municipal guard looked back at him. He was probably a year or two younger than Dmitri had been when he joined the Prole Office, and he had a cheerful, handsome face.

“They’re yours,” Dmitri said. “All of them.” Major Neumann just nodded, one hand rising to touch his scar. 

His teacher said, “Vanya only counted the Vor, but I don’t make distinctions. This is everyone. Everyone that I could find, though I know that there are more.” He met Dmitri’s gaze without turning away. “I always kept good records, from the very beginning. Captain Negri appreciated my attention to detail.”

So many dead. It would be easy enough to simply leave. To return to a safe, happy life in the country, far from all of this. Instead, Dmitri stepped towards the Major, away from the door.

“I gave you Pavel’s notes earlier,” Major Neumann told him. “He was close- he didn’t know how close- but he didn’t know everything. Some things we kept from him. He found out the truth about Anna Fabron, the truth of Tomas Vorekller and Prince Serg, but he never learned how Elise Vorradic’s story ended.” 

The old man reached into his coat and drew out a knife. It glittered in the cold light as he offered it to Dmitri hilt-first, and he took the blade carefully. His mother had one just like it, a gift from Grandmother on her wedding day. Mom’s knife was a simple steel blade, but this was a work of art, with a shining silver hilt and a ruby set in the pommel. When he tested the blade with his finger, blood welled instantly from the cut. 

The Major said, “I found her in the alley.” 

Dmitri closed his eyes, and said nothing. When he opened them again, Major Neumann was waiting. Perhaps he expected rage or contempt, but Dmitri just said, “She was a brave woman.” 

“A soldier of the People’s Vorbarr Sultana Ninth Regiment.” Blood dripped from the tip of the knife. “The last survivor. I was proud that night, eager to eliminate the final threat to our Prince. I was careless.” 

Captain Jonas Neumann might have died in a narrow, cobbled back-alley, unmourned by anyone except his own trained monster. He  _ had  _ died there, in a sense. Elise Vorradic’s knife had not killed him, but it could only cut flesh and blood; the Bible taught that a word could cut to the soul of a man. 

Behind him, Irina said, “I had to stitch him up on the spot.” She moved forward to stand beside the Major, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I thought I might lose you, boss.” 

“I lived,” the Major said. “I had time to think in the hospital, and I decided to change. Elise Vorradic gave me that gift, without knowing it. I wanted to share it with you.” 

“And with Pavel Vorkotov, before me.” He remembered the photo, the tall, smiling man in a dress uniform. “He didn’t see things as you did.”

Major Neumann said, “No.” There were tears running down his face. “Pavel lost his father during the Pretendership, and he hated the idea of another civil war. He wasn’t blind to ImpSec’s crimes, but in the end he did not think our way was best. I wanted to transfer him out, to send him to another department, but I’d waited too long. It was only a matter of time before he solved everything.”

The Major had described his predecessor as a brilliant detective. A man with an exceptional ability to find patterns. Dmitri had read Pavel Vorkotov’s notes, and he could see just how close the Major’s last apprentice had come to finding the truth. “Irina.”

She loved to boast of her kills, but she was not smiling now. “I liked him,” Irina said, her voice flat and empty. “His mother hugged me at the funeral and thanked me for being so good to her Pavel.” 

If Dmitri was a better detective...soldiers died in war. He’d accepted that risk from the first moment he knelt to take oath to Regent Vorkosigan. Pavel Vorkotov had died in battle, and he was not the first or the last victim of the People’s soldiers. Dmitri would kill men like Pavel Vorkotov. He would kill young, brave men eager to serve their Emperor, eager to uphold their own family traditions. And in the end he would kill the innocent for the distant hope of a better world, the dream of a Barrayar where the great did not do as they pleased. 

_ The law is mine, not thine. Who shall arraign me for it?  _

He knelt on the hard wooden floorboards, placed his palms together, and raised his hands. The Major did not step forward to place his hands around Dmitri’s, for his oath was not to a man. 

“I swear to serve Barrayar and Barrayar’s people through all trial and hardship, against all enemies within and without, until death take me or the People release me. I swear this by my name…” He paused, fighting to continue, and remembered Mom’s smile. He was his mother and father’s son, whatever he named himself, and he did not betray them with this choice. “I swear this by my name as Remis.”

Irina reached out and took his hand, and he rose to his feet. “Welcome to the Prole Office.”


End file.
